For Anna Akhmatova
Month after month
she stands with the other mothers
outside the prison’s red walls
waiting for one word of news.
A woman with blue lips looks her way,
asks ‘Can you describe this?’
Her words flicker like lamplight
through mist shrouding the Neva.
All she has is one coat, a hat,
a suitcase filled with poems.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Penelope Howarth
would be pleased to hear them.