THE LAST MOHICAN

The last Mohican

I met had a mat of

Crow’s nest hair

Interthreaded with

Woolen strands

Bright as feathers.

‘Thank you for stopping.’

Reservation in her voice

As the shopping non-stoppers

Stampeded by.

We enacted the ritual

Called ‘Giving to the Poor’

‘No-one stops anymore.’

She sat down on some steps

To suffer the bows and arrows

Of disgraceful disinterest.

Toting for some kind

Of change outside the market.

Donal Thompson

www.donal.info