Crone
(1999)
The old woman sits alone on sand
At the edge of the big blue sea.
She is older than the fishing boats.
Older than the mermaid stories.
Older than the hungry waves
Which are themselves now frail
Crawling painfully slowly
Up
And
Down
The empty silver shoreline,
Their white foaming mouths
Latching onto loose pebbles
Inviting them back to the water.
And the day is old.
The amber sun is already
Dipping
Behind the horizon,
A hay
Of burnt orange.
She sits silently
Her once black, grey hair
Is attacking the breeze
And her eyes;
Large
Green
Round
Are empty.
Yet her face is wrinkled
With a thousand smiles
And it seemed as though
She has reached an age beyond
Time.