At Midnight Mass
Beneath her neck-scarf the wattled wrinklesAnd another to cover her wispy white hair.
Her bird-brittle arms in the wings of a shawl
And trembling hands holding on to a prayer.
A black dress that will be her burial pall,
But not yet – there is faith, not despair
As she bends, tries to kneel and not fall.
In her eyes a young lovely girl twinkles.
Poetry by countryfog
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Written on 2010-12-25 at 14:46
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