Lydia

I saw her again last night at the vigil;
She’s just another spinster in the congregation.
That’s what we all see,
But something makes us all stare longer at her:
Would it be her gait that strikes us peculiar?
Cos I’m so sure it’s a whole lot odd.
Probably because her feet are not those of a swan;
For they fail to lift gracefully.


She’s not pretty, you know;
Her cheeks are quite sunken,
And her cheekbones are an embarrassment to the conventional beauty they ought radiate.
She can’t afford new cloths,
So she wears her branded tee shirts with uncomfortably large skirts;
Wrapping her legs in and sweeping almost noisily,
Her traditional dresses fall off her shoulders,
And this is in no way attractive.

As her skin is all wrinkled over her collarbone;
Her face gives her the appearance of a woman scorned in abject poverty,
Fifteen years older below her eyes than she is.
She places a pair of red rimmed plastic “prescription glasses” over the bridge of her nose
And swears to any who is fortunate to sit by her about her academic qualifications.

She doesn’t speak her local language as her watchword is “Sophistication”.
So she doesn’t use the public toilet,
Nor does she speak to those that undermine her watchword.
Damn, she hates those bleached and contoured proud faces,
She believes in natural beauty; Like herself.

And of course, she is.
For I can feel the angels smile down at her when she laughs.
She’s heaven on earth and wants a baby someday;
But her eyes sing defiance for she doesn’t pray for a man to feel complete.
She has Christ and yes she’s free.

She’s probably not pretty but she’s awesome;
And although I avoid sitting by her side in fear she’d talk me to sleep,
glancing her way makes me smile.
She’s Lydia;
And she would definitely hold your gaze longer than you’d expect.




Photo credit: at original owners.