The Woman Poem by Jack Meads

You may find her by a copse of trees,
or tending the blooms in the evening breeze.
A woman of uncertain years- at a glance- a woman
with a certain grace, who looks askance,
at those who dare to invade her sacred space.

You may find her alone in a quiet place,
a fragment of melody or unresolved chord brings a smile to her face'
a face - for one moment- that freezes in time
then a look, once more askance that such intrusion
would dare to challenge, her sacred place.

You may find her in a closet holding back bitter tears
confused and angry that fear could belie her composure
so cool and austere,
that testament to artifice - that look so askance
by clever design and not by chance.

You may find her in joyous frame, at peace,
with thoughts of when her fecund place gave forth beautiful fruit.
A fruit that matured and kept The Woman in a place-
a place of shadows of different hues,
where she created a space - her sacred place.

You may find her considering the passage of time.
The fruit mature-a favoured vine transplanted for another's joy
to be savoured by The Woman but not kept.Can I embrace the change?
she says as once more, she looks askance
but, is there a question in that glance?

You may find her on a stair or in a chair but, not often.
She's never really there and prefers that place where, her features soften
as she thinks fondly of times when, she was fair of face,
danced with joy and young men admired her grace and then, that look,
askance that dares all, to challenge her sacred place.