The Clock-towered widow

...And there the old clock-towered widow sat,
taking her daily deep draughts of girlish things:
of pleats and plaits and wished-for wedding rings,
of memories synchronised with her neat fifties hat.

Schoolgirls clustered in giggling groups,
gaggling and clucking like happy hens at dawn-
hyperactive and over-eager for a share of the corn.
She sipped images of ballet and hula hoops.

A sudden sunbeam lanced the mood;
Cowered by the persistent, penal chimes she rose,
dutifully diligent in her destroying personal prose.
She whispered something incoherent and crude.

Nursing shadows, losing pride,
She skirted the cold stones of the old town;
needing home and the comfort of a dressing gown.
In her usual secret solitude she cried.