‘invisible woman’

 
at a Driffield cafe window table
looking out at nothing much to see
 
on dreary Middle Street,
a grey woman, plastic bonneted
mac buttoned to beat the dreich,
pressed against the wind into Tindall’s
for her regular half dozen eggs
two slices of ham, translucent,
and chicken breasts for her poodle,
named after her husband,
long in his grave but not forgotten
 
glimpsing Roland at a Beltane gathering
dancing naked leaping sacred flames
awestruck, she loosed her long red hair
shed with her clothing, her inhibitions,
joining the dance and joining Roland
 
hand fasting and a Registrar
sealed their future together until
Roland succumbed to bowel cancer
 
now as she strives against ageing,
the weather and the cost of living
the wonder she was
remains locked in her memories
wrapped in sandalwood
and sealed with tears.
 

© coolhermit 2020
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critique and comments welcome.
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Griffonner

Wow! I enjoyed this very much. Women (I’m told by my fair Lady) feel that they become invisible with age. You made the Driffield lady visible in my mind’s eye.

Griffonner

Ooh, I agree with you about those memories. But I must confess that for me the moment was much better than the memory of it. Intriguing thought that: to make that assessment does it mean that there are two kinds of memory? One where you simply recall the overall event, and another where you relive the event in your mind? (*Excuse my ramblings*)

Griffonner

That gave me an ‘Aww!’ moment. Bless you.

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