Sunday, 24 March 2013
The Maid in Waiting
I saw her standing at the gate,
She of slender solemn face,
The shoe-horn hollow of her throat
Modigliani model out of place.
Alone she stood beside that gate
Waiting for what, a lover late?
Sentry gaze searching far,
Slim fingers coiled on topmost bar.
She wore an oatmeal dress of stuff
Not shop bought, made by hand,
A brown plaid shawl on shoulders thrown
A maiden of the land?
Freckles dotted nose and cheek,
Frozen lashes long and sleek,
Bosom slight yet shyly proud,
Profile framed by fleecy cloud.
And once or twice she seemed to sigh
As if resigned to God knows what,
Yet still immobile she remained
Reminder of the wife of Lot.
I watched her for what seemed an age
Still she never changed the page,
Quick heel and she deserted me
Left with no choice but to be.