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Poem

Concrete dust drifts like sand across a coastal path.
An old woman battered with facial features that hung on her face, 
Disconnected and hanging. 
She leans forward in her blumonge, waterproof, unwashed nylon flares from Matalan. 
They ruffle in the wind as she looks out withdrawn onto the A350.

Her gaze is muffled by a sheen of intoxication, 
She tries with the majority of her self to keep her lids from closing, 
Mascara encrusted into the creases of her skin, 
Almost soldering her lashes together in a gluelike fashion. 
Leans hazardously towards the path of oncoming traffic,
Gesturing with open arms to the creatures of metal that push past her. 
The only trace of their moment in time is a gust that pushes her body back to safety as it, Confused and unobservant,
Collapses onto the urban stream that claims her yet again.

I watch as she continues to stumble on, 
Reaching out to every vehicle that steams on past, 
She does not see me. 
She is clogged by something greater and more sombre than I know. 
She is a perfect reflection of the time and place, 
She is what we all are feeling but continue not to show in fear of the outcome.
She is us.

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