My udders are dry. <br />I will never chew the grass of the lush future. <br /> <br />I am a washer of pots, <br />A stroker of cats. <br /> <br />I am a Maypole stripped of all its ribbons. <br />The red stigmata has withered between my thighs. <br />My womb is a walnut, <br />Age has dried it out like a dead coal. <br /> <br />Before the mercury drops in the empty hall, <br />I may grow lavender to hide old woman smells. <br />The grandfather clock that stands on the stairs to <br />Heaven Chimes eleven. <br /> <br />Almost, it is the hour of the mole, <br />The velvet tunneller who'll greet my soul. <br />Perhaps they'll keep my memory in a bowl.<br /><br />sheena blackhall<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/old-woman-5/
