Woman On The Bridge Poem by Eleanor Gray

Eyes so round and bulging,
They seemed ready to pop out of the sockets
Around them were circles of black
That were dark as mascara that runs from tears

They were not circles of artificiality
They were circles as real as the terror she projected around her
As real as the anguish
As real as the pain that surrounded her
As real as the china-doll paleness of her face
That was framed by black curly wisps of hair

Like a china doll, her hair was drawn
Away from her face in a bun or a ‘ponytail'
Was she old-fashioned or was she now?
However not in fashion

A blond-haired child,
The quintessential opposite, sat nonchalantly on her left hip
Rigid, with arms loosely at its sides
Not holding on as children of 18 months are wont to do
Blank-faced and unconcerned with surroundings
Unaffected by the mood and movement of its bearer
I wondered if the child was angel or demon
Or merely baggage

The woman struggled up the hill of the cement bridge
Like a swimmer frantically attempting to reach the shore
Before he flails once more below the waves
And does not rise again

We drove past so quickly
I could not react by crying "stop" to the driver
And looking back to see if she was real

Time had raced, yet delayed long enough
For the details of their appearances
To burn into my eyes and brain and soul,
For their energies to engulf me

Both the driver and I were blanketed
With the hot energy of the woman's pain and fear
And many days and nights will pass
Before this vision ceases to haunt me