Nobody Knew She Was There

She walks in the cold dark hour before the morning

The hour when wounded night begins to bleed

Stands at the back of the patient queue

The silent almost sweeping queue

Seeing no one and not being seen

Working shoes are wrapped in working apron

Rolled in an oilcloth bag across her knees

The swaying tremor soaks the morning

Blue grey steely day is dawning

Draining the last few dregs of sleep away

Over the bridge and the writhing foul black water

Down through empty corridors of stone

Each of the blind glass walls she passes

Shows her twin in sudden flashes

Which is the mirror image, which is real?

Crouching hooded gods of word and number

Accept her bent-backed homage as their due

The buckets steam like incense coils

Around the endless floor she toils

Cleaning the same white sweep each day anew

Glistening sheen of new-washed floors is fading

There where office clocks are marking time

Night's black tide has ebbed away

By cliffs of glass awash with day

She hurries from her labours still unseen

He who lies besides her does not see her

Nor does the child who once lay at her breast

The shroud of self-denial covers

Eager girl and tender lover

Only the faded servant now is left

How could it be that no one saw her drowning?

How did we come to be so unaware?

At what point did she cease to be her?

When did we cease to look and see her?

How is it no one knew that she was there?