The Maid in Waiting

I saw her standing at the gate,

She of slender solemn face,

The shoe-horn hollow of her throat

Modigliani model out of place.

Alone she stood beside that gate

Waiting for what, a lover late?

Sentry gaze searching far,

Slim fingers coiled on topmost bar.

She wore an oatmeal dress of stuff

Not shop bought, made by hand,

A brown plaid shawl on shoulders thrown

A maiden of the land?

Freckles dotted nose and cheek,

Frozen lashes long and sleek,

Bosom slight yet shyly proud,

Profile framed by fleecy cloud.

And once or twice she seemed to sigh

As if resigned to God knows what,

Yet still immobile she remained

Reminder of the wife of Lot.

I watched her for what seemed an age

Still she never changed the page,

Quick heel and she deserted me

Left with no choice but to be.