Tweed knows the weather before you do,
holds wind in its woven memory.
It smells faintly of rain and intention,
of hills that never asked to be fashionable.
Each thread argues with the next,
brown against grey, patience against time,
until they agree to last.
Nothing hurried ever became tweed.
It creases, but does not apologize.
It warms without asking for praise.
You wear it, and it wears you back,
quietly, for years.
