She who is worn down, led away from, wandering, 
bitten into, gaping open, shrinking, 
lying withdrawn, deaf-dotty:
self-working beasts' paws, tenderly budded, 
pound her fall-dead fear 
in dark conundrum mood.

She married a spotless, polished home 
and reared her spotted children 
on the gospel of good food.

Then suddenly her whirlwheel jumped the rails 
into ill-starred unlucky days. 
Life rubbed away in talk.

Now shaped in weakness, doing dregs, 
mayhap and full of mind, 
abandoned of broken words,

she waits in dreary, ghostly dusk 
on a cold, once sportive bed 
with secret whispers roaring . . .