The Woman's Circle

 Time, once an old woman left wandering in a desert

Is coming home

Her footsteps sure and steady.

She carries new things gently in her arms

And old things, tied to her back

Grow heavy

But she keeps them there

To be ready.

This is no life

But deliveries must be made

And collections completed before day fades

Things taken away and stored

Ready for the end.

This old woman is both the be-all and end-all.

Often she wanders in the inbetween
Looking for shelter and repose

There are moments she finds restful:

Laughter, or here a sad smile

Or a baby born or a deer mindful

Of a twig snapping in the forest

Or a man, pausing at a stile to scratch his nose.

She forgets nothing as we do

And is not allowed acedia

The banished sin

Although she dreams often of doing nothing.

Sometimes she wanders in circles

Expanding and contracting according to the moon

But she is coming, she is coming

And all too soon.

Hers is the last face I shall see.