She wasn’t exactly labouring
Under the lop-sided load,
But ‘listing’, rather;
Her frail fingers paying the price
Of having the temerity
To wage a Wednesday afternoon war
Against the god of Gravity.
Through the lens
Of a vacant stare
She might once have called
‘Resignation’,
She appeared motionless:
A metaphor
Hanging
Between the here and the hereafter.
Then she was gone:
Lost to that brief blindspot
Between rear-view and wing mirror –
To become the bent back
Of a fast-fading memory:
A memory of someone.
Someone.
Someone I’d never know.
Tony Jolley
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/brief-blindspot/
