Mary

Sleeps in the doorway

by the baker’s,

where Woolllies used to be.

Clenched in shawls,

in the shadows,

wary of the boys.

Shoppers watch

her shuffle by:

eyes stalk her to the check-out

and beyond,

back to her world.

The snacks she crumbles,

stick to her fingers

like dough.

No answer,

just a squeak:

hardly a protest

at the cold.

Saw her in Fore Street

this morning

on her way.

Someone had given her

a fur-trimmed coat.

Looked quite the part, her did.

From the back, you wouldn't notice.