The last changing room

No mirror, just a bin for skirt and top,
knickers, bra, shoes, socks
and, on a hook, one garment:
a coat of moss. Its emerald tufts
are springy to the touch.
You slip your arms inside the sleeves,
feel the cool earth lining on shoulders,
hips, thighs, the backs of your knees.
When you walk out barefoot, stomach still bulging
with bulbs under your green pelt, the birds
carry on singing. And you
carry on too, down the road
and up into the hills where there’s bracken,
wild ponies, a stream, and rain, yes, rain.