Strangers Meeting

by Rona Adshead
New Zealand

Anna, he called
                and she emerged from the car.

Dear God, help me not to show
                my shock.
Clean and tidy, I suppose but
                her hair!

Child bereft, coming up for thirteen
clumsily trying to manage platforms -
fashion must hold sway - at least
she wiped them well upon the doormat.
But her hair, unkempt, does it ever
see a brush? Perhaps the tangles hurt
along with all the rest for her mother
is not long buried.

And it is years since I have
                seen her youngest -
what am I to do with this curled up

Anna, hiding her face and her grief
                behind rebellious hair.


Previous Next Poem

[NOTE: To order Tower Poetry 51#1, go to "Publications"]