Wrinkled eyes, gazing

from behind the net curtain

Invisible to

pedestrians on

the way to work, paying bills,

scolding children and

the traffic that stands

simmering all day in the

rising heat from drains.

She used to be there,

didn't she? She is quite sure.

She walked those streets too.

From up here it looks

a swollen river, leaching

all colour from life.

She folds pleats in her

skirt, knowing there is something

to be remembered

about life before,

when she was young, but memories

elude her. The cruel

world insists she must

half forget joy and hope, with

total awareness