header image


Stolen out of her era to live here,
Of hers but a dim reflection,
She dwells upon nothing
But her own small part in the world,

Hears no drumbeat but the one that propelled her,
Vigorous and thick-blooded,
Through her youth and, slower now with the years,
Lets her spite take hold,
Driving her to distraction –

She would have them all shot,
And civilisation put to rights!
From a harsher age she sets her sights
And fires off all her rages:

“Let the blacks go home!” she cries,
This petal-perfect, shrivelled woman
With the glaring eyes.

A bitter old lady who I once knew, born at the turn of the century, Victorian values and a seething hatred under a prissy exterior.

Leave a Reply

Allowed XHTML: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.