The white dust fleck catch golden light
Where cloth is cut with calm insight.
The shears still sing their measured song.
A rhythm steady, sharp, and long.
In whispered stitch and silent weave,
He shaped a line no eye could thieve.
A cutter’s eye, exact and grand,
Measures men with godly plan,
Commits to paper a living form,
Of tailored grace, a quiet storm.
Canvas bowed beneath men's grace,
As shoulders find their rightful place.
Cloth that drapes over clean cut backs
The markers mark and the tailors tacks.
A conductor of a symphony,
That blends with makers of every creed.
At Henry Pooles he made his mark,
But not with pen, nor shear nor chalk.
As a steward of the golden mile,
He worked in silence, and subtle style.
Not one for fame, nor flash, nor praise,
He honoured those old Row-built ways.
Maintained the craft, the hand, the lore,
Stood where great names had stood before.
Now he departs the cutting floor,
No longer hears the showroom door.
But lines he drew and forms he knew
Still shape the coats of something true.
So raise a glass and bow your head,
The master leaves, his work ahead.
If cloth could speak or chalk could spell,
They'd praise a man who cut so well.
By Rory Duffy
Dedicated to my colleague and mentor Philip Parker, former MD at Henry Poole & co. on his retirement from the tailoring trade.