Moonlight Seamstress

On the bridge,

in the corner sitting

under the moonlight.

Driven to insanity.

Spooling thread from cloth

and gauze to lace.

Numb fingers

crippled with pain.

From discipline

of years

tainting solitude

with hate.

Some children watch

passing by the spot.

A woman that was constant.

Who smelt of

soured oranges.

The harsh snipping

of her scissors,

echoing for eternity.