Jean Sim, a clippie, dressed in navy-blue, <br />Shouldered her punch as if it was a gun, <br />Her netted hair caught tightly in a bun. <br /> <br />She'd lift her pocket flap, tap out a fag, <br />Take a long drag, quick-sip a mug of tea, <br />Never missed the ashtray. <br />Snibbed her smoke, was thrifty, <br />Always looked the other side of fifty. <br /> <br />One year she took her leave of Christmas cheer <br />Trussed in a belted coat, with red beret <br />And matching scarf and gloves from Aunty Joan, <br />Zipped up her fur lined boats (the frost cut to the bone) , <br />Left by the back door, cutting across the fields. <br /> <br />Finding the note too late, her father sought her, <br />A railway worker, shouting his daughter's <br />Name across the snow. <br /> <br />Sharp frost that held the furrows in a vice <br />Warned that minds too, can chill and turn to ice. <br />Storm brewing darkly over the woods, <br />The narrow burn was raging, <br />Thinking itself a torrent, thinking itself a Tiber - <br />Pretentious, piddling puddle, three feet deep, <br />Where Jean stepped in and laid her down to sleep. <br /> <br />For weeks she stalked my dreams, hands on lap, <br />Her clippie's uniform immaculate, <br />The raging burn roaring across her face, <br />Unreachable by censure or disgrace. <br />Her father's knuckles wrung his tweed cap raw. <br /> <br />One summer the smiling river pulled me down, <br />And played with me as if I'd been a toy. <br />No kindly tree stretched down its boughs to save, <br />Forget-me-nots watched blankly from the waves; <br />I could have been a stone thrown in by boys. <br />Till, struggling, I broke free. <br /> <br />I love to watch the river, find it haunting <br />Its moods and sudden eddies so enchanting; <br />I dabble with it, toe-dip, do not enter <br />I am no Jean, could never go dead centre.<br /><br />sheena blackhall<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/waterbabes/
