I see this lady every afternoon as my train trundles through St Johns, and she fascinates me. Always sitting in the same place, always in her own world, always in shocking pink clothes!
A few words came into my head as I was walking home today, and as with me when I write poetry, when I got home, I immediately began to work on them further before bunging them on here.
So, here is my ode to The Lady of St Johns:
There she sits rocking, every afternoon.
There she sits in shocking, pink, but only she can hear the tune.
No one else sits near her, don’t think they want to try.
She sits with notepad ready, watching the trains pass by.
She mouths the words to something, I never make out what.
Her bags (pink) sit next to her, are they all that she’s got?
I hope that she is happy, I hope she is not sad.
I might wave to her tomorrow, I wonder if she’ll be glad.