Not far from the slate-grey running road
where the iron horse used to burn,
rots a plywood squatting toad
red as the leaves that turn.
Tree hair lines the dusty crone’s
stomach bronze and copper,
old silk trims the softening bones
of the lonely lady leper.
Blind eyes are patched unseeing white,
her mouldy cap is broken,
stone marrow keeps her mouth shut tight,
her secrets left unspoken.
(c) christine DINGLEY 2011