The Washer Woman's Wings

The Washer Woman's Wings
Christine Olinger

Old washer woman
with your cloak about you
lifting in the wind
like wings-- dark wings,
do you kneel there,
in the clay
of my long lost loves
to remind me?

Counting out
your scraps and cloths
like beans,
counted nigh on
to thirteen.

Is it thirteen?

Your numbers
never frightened me,
nor joining them
if it comes to that.

Your numbers
never called me,
though I've
heard the song
til it sings along
the strings of my soul.

They can clamour
outside my window,
howl and rage
in the misty night.

Let them come.
Let them rage.
But oh, your rags--
dark, flapping wings--
your cloak
does look warm
on this chilly winter night.