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| Image Source: Trudie Shannon |
Old Lady Fallen From Grace - Trudie Shannon
A lady of grace, I thought.
Poised and dignified, a quiet voice.
Her hair comfortably spun into the familiar knot
At the back of her head.
Elegant, the slight sideway tilt of her head, genteel
Her scarf cast across her shoulder not for warmth
But for loveliness,
The broach, a golden butterfly clasping her silk blouse
At her sinewy dowagers neck.
She walked as if time stood still for her,
As if she had just alighted from a shining beast with a combustion engine
Or may be the last carriage.
Moving as quietly as a princess in stockinged feet,
She paused in her passing of me
And in the cast of her eyes I knew, for her, I did not exist,
And my head bowed naturally in memoriam.
Truly once a lady of grace, of hushed dignity
Slipping gently through space now, whispering, muttering
To invisible companions, lax servants,
Her inane smile rigid, unbroken,
Her black court shoes scuffed, heels broken
And a thread, hanging shamefully from her skirt.
Oblivious she inclined her head gracefully
At the alabaster head beside the door
And departed.
The butterfly broach, crushed tin foil glinting brightly,
Captured in a stray beam of light.
Trudie Shannon
