Outside Morrison’s behind a trolley,
battling the wind with a skeleton brolly,
no wily descendent of Mrs Gamp
- a woman that everyone calls a tramp.
She has seven cats, carries blunted knives,
her wrinkled face has lived several lives.
We do not know the words she shouts,
her otherness surely increases our doubts.
We turn away as she squats at the drain,
impervious to her shame and pain.
Someone lost in her labyrinth mind.
Whether Polish, Syrian, or simply other -
She is no alien and is our kind:
for even this crone is someone’s mother.