it’s not exactly the most fetching plait, one in which an ebony pin would shine, but at least it has some form, a sign that somewhere in the rough morning a hand reached back to say I’m still in this life, not everything is abandoned
her windows are clear, with a spirit to connect, her palms move forward with vigour, and behind the dirt one can see grace and gold, the queen of a tiny and manageable kingdom where there is not one reason to think about leaving
they come in white vans, offering warmth and food, called by citizens who think of their own mothers and grandmothers, but she doesn’t remember the sunday roast, or the trips to the seaside, or her beautiful daughters’ holy communions
she keeps moving from coffee to coffee, from doorway to doorway, from one donated bun to another, but every now and then she looks at herself in the shine of a metal receptacle, remembering that once she was attractive and so in love
© Copyright, 2006. Seamus Kearney.