She hobbles through selfish streets
pushing the tartan bag-on-wheels,
her emblem of independence.
Excuses her way through wanderings of people,
whose eyes are full of thought,
not light, whose sight is fixed
on mental shopping lists,
or secret trysts in coffee-shops
with lunchtime lovers.
Dusty old acquaintances enquire
after her bad health,
which is always (so she says)
On her way to the Market Hall,
she stumbles, falls, fails to make the fresh fruit stall,
her Wednesday’s destination..
On her knees, no cries, no pleas,
just silence in accepting things
that life digs up and hands to her;
and whispering through some childhood prayer,
waits for the help she knows will come,
full faith in Man’s propensity to care.