Windy Roadside In Russia - On the Verge

WINDY ROADSIDE IN RUSSIA - ON THE VERGE When I saw her she was on the verge, Grey wisps of hair blown in wind. Not the carefully combed-back Black-hair parting from her kolkhoz days, Not the ebony shining ringlets of school. Holes in her shoes - she feels the roughness Of the path which has brought her here To this point on the road Threading through Her life. Hole of her sole is the whole of her soul. She has nothing not dirty and ill-fitting, Like her life, with no protection against the elements. Coin plops in plastic box - she blesses herself and drinks. Her sole soulless solace…..tea. Cars flash by. I see her askance, mustn’t catch her eye, Risk the chance to say - Who? Me? She fills me With unease in my ease-filled life As I get closer. Pretended not to see her, quickened my pace, Looked busy and preoccupied. Me……about to give - but didn’t. When I saw her I was on the verge