Years ago, I used to walk along a deserted northern beach. I liked walking best at night but, having said that, the walk I remember most was one morning of thick fog when a light aeroplane swooped out of the mist almost alongside me and the pilot waved. My night walks were usually lonely except that I would sometimes pass another woman walking on her own. We never spoke, never stopped, yet there was a sense of being together.
STALK WOMAN STRANGER
This woman walks along a stranger shore,
With night dabbed eyes she stretches far alone
To gather in the thin skin glow
Of placid moon.
She arcs her dark mouth for its home.
She hears the stranger sea and slow cold blood.
With pale stick hands she paints her all life face
Upon the stilly parchment bone
Of caught up dust.
The window of her now time place.
Stalk woman walking sea and stranger shore,
With spreading life holes hugs the whitened moon
To her lonely pebble breast
In timid joy.
And dances in night’s flower room.
© Gwen Grant