Winter dusk soughs in, dark
clouds threaten, tangle her wool.

Black is the colour inside      black light   on
blackened brick and slats

Necessity, that scold’s bridle, held her humble and mean,
So that she no longer spoke, just looked –
Her world reduced to a search for special offers . . .

Mrs Norris had thought ascension
would be whirligig rides in bright violet rays,
as the training books all implied.

The tide unpleats from her godet,
zig-zags in running stitch
round the base of the côtil.

supposedly: if I am to render
‘a man’ then
this ‘man’ must I guess resemble me‹›

The nun in charge of the children is thin, her back straight as punishment.

You try doing star-jumps, steps,
or squats, in knee-high wellies.

I was born in a town of shadows.