This poem is taken from Stand 219, 16(3) August - September 2018.

Alison Brackenbury Six Poems
Miss A

I met her, spotless, in the summer dust
of the back lane, before her small red house.
Her twinsets glimmered rose, pale mauve (I must

then have said ‘morve’). The village old would purse
thin lips, begrudge her name. Yet she stepped clean,
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