The title is a made-up word that seems to mean "the study of tailoring," and the poem plays on that idea. A speaker puts on a new suit, but the body inside it hasn't changed. The "old lace hands" are delicate, worn, and perhaps veined or fragile with age, and they stand out against fresh clothing.
The speaker keeps going back to the river, "turn and return," as if drawn by habit or pull. The repeated sound of those words feels like walking back and forth, or like water moving. The last line, "sure as night," says this return is as certain as darkness falling.
The feeling is quiet and a little wistful. The new outer layer can't cover time or mortality, and the river suggests something steady and older than any of us. Judging by the imagery, the speaker seems less upset than resigned, even calm, about being pulled toward it.