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