Gayle Newby Book Signing

Sleeping in that cold water flat, far from her treasured countryside,
some days she may have risen early.
Perhaps she could see the torn edge of the city, just as the sun hovered,
briefly, before hiding behind the tarnish of London’s savage streets.

If there was money for fire she might have brewed a cup of tea, reflecting;
missing her sister’s discussion of philosophy, and religion.

Melded hearts are hard to come by.

Could be, those churning thoughts of frigid farmwives,
of innocent dead children,
those grating tragic visions of madness and longing
were waning in this autumn of her life.

May be she did not dwell on her poverty, her father’s early death, her tragic family’s end.
It is possible that her soul was ready:  packed for
“some remote and quite stair which winds to silence and a space of sleep too sound for waking and for dreams too deep.”