One brittle, winter day,

When cold has drained all scent out of the air,

And overnight sewn it in a sparkling wrap,

Discarded over everything,

To be brushed-off by any careless shoulder,

Written in by mischievous fingers,

Or melted by the smallest footprints,

A woman trips.

 

For a lifetime -

Or less than a second -

She’s frozen in crystal light,

Caught breath and blood-bitten lips,

Fingers outstretched in a lofty, balletic gesture,

Yet futile,

A tendril of hair flattened across her face,

Like a wriggling mono-brow,

Handbag exposing,

A full-colour peepshow of her

Bruised purse, hair-clogged brush,

A work I.D. and sanitary towel,

On her face a preoccupied expression,

And o-pout mouth, exclaiming,

In a tone more suited to a 1940’s cocktail party,

“Oh!”

As she folds,

Neck first, head back,

Shoulders crowding ears and

Right knee dangerously close to her white, ridged throat,

Towards the pavement.

 

She recovers it.

Feet in-turned,

The heel of one patent shoe creaking,

Popping a stitch,

Two stitches,

Yet holding firm.

She’s spilled some coins and a thrush pessary,

But doesn’t pick them out of the wet gutter,

Smiles at sniggering onlookers,

Neatly reigns in her unruly body,

And cruises on her way,

Queen-like.

 

She’s lived her life like this,

At speeds beyond her control,

Never dwelling on that lost,

Always on the brink of catastrophe,

A startling combination of

Comic and tragic.

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