The Lady Poem by PAUL COLVIN

The Lady



The Lady. 25th October 2014.

She carries her home in an old plastic bag
Dressed in her best, to some they're just rags
Shoes made of newspapers covered her feet
Her shoulders rise on a head that hangs low
Shrunken and aged, she goes where she goes
Her home is a pavement in a cold cul-de-sac
Her roof, an umbrella, her door, an old mac
She sleeps like an angel by the side of a road
Tonight, somewhere else in her mobile abode
Her face scarred by winter but the sun caught her eyes
Beneath feeble frame is a lady disguised
Shades of grandeur arise from a past
Her story's a rich one, one that will last
Strauss, Chopin, Wagner, I imagine her play
In some grand concert hall, in her halcyon days
Her emotions portray in the hush of a night
Some Sitting at her piano, her fingers take flight
But for now she's "The Lady" with the cheery wee face
And with politeness embraces each sunrise with grace
For all that was great is not all sadly gone
For her life has a meaning as she welcomes each dawn.
She cares not for those who cast her aside
She's fully aware of the comments she rides
Thousands are lie her though not all alone
But at least she is living a life that she owns. Paul Colvin.

Saturday, October 25, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: Love
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