Asthma is dressed stone, rasping KATE NOAKES

Kate Noakes

Every day she rolls away her wardrobe doors and stands before them – the stone dresses –listening for the one singing the loudest, me.

Some days flint clinks a knap song. Sometimes granite hums a three-part crystal.

Sandstone choruses itself back to the beach, an hourglass broken on the striped carpet.

One special day, a whole chalk downland hymned her a dusty covering.

Monthly, mudstone gurgles and boils to help her navigate the tide.

Warmer than marble – the stone dresses – and changeable by the drugs of fire and ice: nothing can split them, not hammer, not chisel.