to Molly Miller

Word-woman word-woman who dreamt she might have raced
fast cars; who talking all night in the kitchen
seemed perched astride a vast compendium
of fact and logic; who honoured the streets and times
of a dead Greece that found the world’s sane sunlight;
who re-thought old chronology; East and West
her mind flew who had never stirred from Britain;
theories shot out fast as typewriter keys
turning a wildwood forest into books.

Who burned in the present, too; and kept her eyes on
the small light, the bitter hope of Communism;
who cared over all for justice; and whose life
was hurt by her own mind . . . now always before me
the other side of the table in Cecil St.

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