She wasn’t exactly labouring
Under the lop-sided load,
But ‘listing’, rather;
Her frail fingers paying the price
Of having the temerity
To wage a Wednesday afternoon war
Against the god of Gravity.
Through the lens
Of a vacant stare
She might once have called
‘Resignation’,
She appeared motionless:
A metaphor
Hanging
Between the here and the hereafter.
Then she was gone:
Lost to that brief blindspot
Between rear-view and wing mirror –
To become the bent back
Of a fast-fading memory:
A memory of someone.
Someone.
Someone I’d never know.
I love the last verse and the sad ending. I wonder now, who she was. Sincerely Ernestine Northover
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Accessible, your poetry seems to me, and beautifully crafted too. Each word weighed and measured (probably many discarded in the process) . Love your love affair with alliteration too. Gives the poem a real mark of authority. You share your ephemeral human moment, with compassion and a hint of a smile. Lovely poem. Allie ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥