Old Woman

My udders are dry. I will never chew the grass of the lush future. I am a washer of pots, A stroker of cats. I am a Maypole stripped of all its ribbons. The red stigmata has withered between my thighs. My womb is a walnut, Age has dried it out like a dead coal. Before the mercury drops in the empty hall, I may grow lavender to hide old woman smells. The grandfather clock that stands on the stairs to Heaven Chimes eleven. Almost, it is the hour of the mole, The velvet tunneller who'll greet my soul. Perhaps they'll keep my memory in a bowl.