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
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