The shop filled with a dark brown gloom. Walled with cupboards and drawers.
An unintentional history of buttons, beads and textiles.
A detritus of assemblage. Offcuts. Things lost, Things 
set aside for later, things made and Things waiting to emerge into the light.

Two men, sometimes three. Old enough to have been there forever.
Fingers hardened against the pin pricks. Eyes aided by glass to see the 
intricate work. Voices soft, reverent. An ongoing dialogue about nothing 
much at all. Tiny histories, the minutiae of others casually recounted.

Lengths of cloth, carefully protected with lengths of brown paper. 
Occasionally unwrapped. White suddenly. The blooming of some exotic 
flower in this deep brown jungle. Reflected in the jars and ancient brass.
Reflected in careful considerate eyes. Craftsmen making choices. 

The men move slowly, with great purpose. Hands operate arcane machines. 
The material moves, flashes in the gloom. Shaped pieces are assembled.
Gently, precisely, a dress takes shape – a great white thing. Perfect, 
beautiful and unimaginable. A  butterfly born of otherness, not of this tiny dark brown world. 

She comes to collect it.  Her mother with her – eyeing the ancient men with distrust. Unsure 
as to how they know anything about dresses and the ceremony of the day to come. Sure 
too that their slow thoughts must still be impure. Sure as well that they are trying to 
deceive her to steal her money. They peer back at her blinking for a moment as if trying to remember.
 
She comes to collect it. As strange and as other as the dress itself. A moment of radience, a
beam of glittering light, A lightness against the weight. A day against the centuries. These 
men have brought her dreams to life and they bask for a moment in the hopes and fears.
 
And when she is gone they turn back to their needles and machines and pour out all they have seen
in to the next beautiful dress just as they have done endlessly over the years.