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How Long She Will Be

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Staggered, on the stony path,
did the frail old figure,

thrown by the wind; ragged, wiry grey
coils sprung from pinked scalp.
Eyes, milky, blue as violets,

scanned the crowd of gulls above
circling the shoreline, thrown by the gale.

A small, knobbled cane, she carried,

in one gnarled, rough hand
Twisted fingers curled around the honey
coloured wood; her breathing is laboured.

Behind her clatters a carpetbag, on
rusty, dirt-brown wheels,

bursting with nothing, for only a
crumpled note of five,

Lays tattered, forgotten, at its base.
Staggered on, through the force,
did the frail old figure; braving

spray, thunder, and almighty wind
To reach her destination.

Forth she ploughs, determined, her
mind as sane as you or me;
But no one knows where she is going,
or how long she
will be.

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