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