I first saw
the Victorian woman
faintly through the century old glass
while admiring my home from afar.
The house dates back
to the birth of our nation.
She visits me sometimes
and always without notice.
A faint washed out image
with stoic Victorian features
always in a black mourning dress,
common for that era of time.
A warm, peaceful and comforting feeling
comes to me with each of her visits.
I somehow know her name
to be Abigail…
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem