Poems (Henley)/In Fisherrow
IN FISHERROW
A hard north-easter fifty winters longHas bronzed and shrivelled sere her face and neck;Her locks are wild and grey, her teeth a wreck;Her foot is vast, her bowed leg spare and strong.A wide blue cloak, a squat and sturdy throngOf curt blue coats, a mutch without a speck,A white vest broidered black, her person deck,Nor seems their picked, stern, old-world quaintness wrong.Her great creel forehead-slung, she wanders nigh,Easing the heavy strap with gnarled, brown fingers,The spirit of traffic watchful in her eye,Ever and anon imploring you to buy,As looking down the street she onward lingers,Reproachful, with a strange and doleful cry.