How Long She Will Be

Staggered, on the stony path,

did the frail old figure,

     thrown by the wind; ragged, wiry grey

coils sprung from pinked scalp.

Eyes, milky, blue as violets,

     scanned the crowd of gulls above

circling the shoreline, thrown by the gale.

 

A small, knobbled cane, she carried,

     in one gnarled, rough hand

Twisted fingers curled around the honey

coloured wood; her breathing is laboured.

 

Behind her clatters a carpetbag, on

rusty, dirt-brown wheels,

     bursting with nothing, for only a

crumpled note of five,

     Lays tattered, forgotten, at its base.

Staggered on, through the force,

did the frail old figure; braving

     spray, thunder, and almighty wind

To reach her destination.

 

Forth she ploughs, determined, her

    mind as sane as you or me;

But no one knows where she is going,

or how long she

will be.

The End

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