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Chris Considine

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Edith and the Unicorn

My feet remember her snail’s-pace progress
along the Georgian street, with pauses
at presbytery and Conservative Club
to slump against the low wall and railings.
In spite of aching legs and breathlessness
she saw the blue fall of lobelia
from a window-box, a wall’s ‘red ivy’.

Safe in the Oxfam shop she scrutinised
the garment rails with dark myopic eyes,
her grubby fingers stroking the chiffon
and lace, artificial silk and satin.
Regardless of size and reason she chose
her peacock robes: a multi-coloured blouse,
a rose-print dress, a sprigged blue petticoat.

Then to The Unicorn for a sit-down
and a half of lager, where she would proudly
spread out her purchases until she sat
circled by freshness in the reddish gloom,
and the ancient lady of legends
was metamorphosed back into beauty,
the sweet-faced virgin in the flowery field.

 

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