Wyndred coils herself into flickery existence
From the smoke of an extinguished grease-fire.
The cooks in the restaurant kitchen, used to this,
Give her black coffee and a place to sit down.
After a while she nods off, wrapped in aprons.
Between them the cooks know eleven languages
But not Frisian, which, aside from bits of Latin and Norse,
Is all Wyndred speaks. They are anyway too polite
To ask for miracles from a saint so old she's forgotten
What and who she is supposed to be the patron of.
An alley cat settles in her lap; she strokes it
Without waking up.
No comments:
Post a Comment