Think of a lady in a field

Think of an old lady in a field

calling down a thrush to come and see her where

the ground meets air.

She gives the bird a pocketknife and says

‘Can you draw an arc in the sky?

Can you claw a hole and

pull me through the other side?’

Think of the lady.

She has lost her religion. 

Her wife has died. 

An orange-headed-thrush ripples through open air.

He carries no pocket knife.

Think of her loneliness, 

as her hope flies away

and she is left 

just an old lady in an open field.

Do you think she can see you?

Do you think you are her God?

When you think of the old lady in the field 

remember not to imagine her hope. 

I imagine her grief as an orphan

 who wakes up on Christmas 

to find no presents, not even a card. 

When I remember her, 

I write a letter inviting her for coffee 

and then I am reminded of the limits of a poem.

If she saw you when you thought of her,

would you try to remember her more often?

Or would it be cruel to give her back her hope?