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She walks in the cold dark hour before the morning |
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The hour when wounded night begins to bleed |
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Stands at the back of the patient queue |
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The silent almost sweeping queue |
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Seeing no one and not being seen |
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Working shoes are wrapped in working apron |
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Rolled in an oilcloth bag across her knees |
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The swaying tremor soaks the morning |
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Blue grey steely day is dawning |
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Draining the last few dregs of sleep away |
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Over the bridge and the writhing foul black water |
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Down through empty corridors of stone |
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Each of the blind glass walls she passes |
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Shows her twin in sudden flashes |
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Which is the mirror image, which is real? |
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Crouching hooded gods of word and number |
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Accept her bent-backed homage as their due |
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The buckets steam like incense coils |
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Around the endless floor she toils |
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Cleaning the same white sweep each day anew |
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Glistening sheen of new-washed floors is fading |
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There where office clocks are marking time |
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Night's black tide has ebbed away |
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By cliffs of glass awash with day |
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She hurries from her labours still unseen |
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He who lies besides her does not see her |
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Nor does the child who once lay at her breast |
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The shroud of self-denial covers |
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Eager girl and tender lover |
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Only the faded servant now is left |
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How could it be that no one saw her drowning? |
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How did we come to be so unaware? |
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At what point did she cease to be her? |
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When did we cease to look and see her? |
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How is it no one knew that she was there? |
