A Scunthorpe Bag Lady

She stoops and scratches at the exposed earth,
her arm between the railings, as she strokes
the crumbling soil with all the carefulness
Of an archeologist, who brushes
and brushes, one layer at a time, searching
for God knows what; some long gone, long dead thing?
Then on she moves, her bulging knapsack,
gives her the appearance of a hunchback.
Her walk is a slight stagger with a list
to port, as her eyes skim the borders
and she tries to perceive the particular
in empty patches in between each drift
of summer flowers in suburban plots.
There seems no purpose in her scrutiny,
she's careless of the tab ends cast aside,
her hunting seems to be for what SHE'S lost
although she is uncertain, it's specific.
She's unaware, and seems oblivious,
Rough callous children laugh and then disperse
to shout and stare and watch her rolling by.
She stoops and scratches at the exposed earth.