The Long Woman

For years there is this walking woman,
walking, walking, hooded, boots white with chalk.
Along the sides of busy A roads,
drivers clock her: one beat, one black blink.
We would never taunt her. And then one day
she’s gone.
Back in that room with thin curtains,
a baby bulges, forces passage;
taps her milk with short sharp beak; grows stick legs,
a jagged mop of hair, wide shiny eyes;
is off to school.
And back and forth she walks
and walks, hooded, upright. And every day
she crosses at the same place, drops down
a twitten. Seagulls scream and twist, metal
sea rises.
On she walks: her child needs her.

Charlotte Gann

If you have any comments on this poem, Charlotte Gann would be pleased to hear them

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