The Old Woman

Stooped and hunched
But easily she moves,
Circling flat Clarke shoes
Onto the pavement.

I see her all the time,
To and from her house;
Knitted white jumper and baggy leggings,
Carrying no shopping bags- where did she go?

Where has she been?
In the factory, maybe, or
The bus depots of yesteryear,
Working while her husband

Fought in World War Two,
Craving letters as she trundled on,
Craving news that the one who loved her
Was still alive.

Or maybe smiling smooth lips, holding her
Children- in itchy grey school uniforms-
Long shiny hair pulled back
For the pro faded black and white photograph...

And where are the ones who loved her now?
Where are her smart clothes and court shoes
And smooth skin
And life as she knew it?

Are they all ghosts in her memory?
Now she is a ghost existing in life as I know it,
And when life as I know it
Becomes faded yellow pages in a history book,

Will I, too, be a ghost,
Coming from nowhere,
Watering the gardens and
Emptying the trash cans of strangers,

Gone crazy with loneliness after my husband died?