“as a river moves round an old stone”
The sky wasn’t thinking of anything in particular. I saw the woman standing on the bridge — bare shins like frozen stalks poking out of the ground snagged my attention. The Isis showed her a blank face.
The sky’s brow was beginning to furrow. I noticed the woman crossing the high street — hard feet dragging and slipping in a man’s shoes, thick coat overloading her bones like a cross. The city bypassed her as a river moves round an old stone.
I had not imagined hearing a woman like that — her shriek carving up the afternoon’s carcass and lipstick red as hell smeared on her mouth. The sky knew exactly what to do and turned its wide back on us both.
Rebecca Watts the poems