The mad old women, bolted from April’s weather
Sit, in their morning rows, cautious, intent
Where Technicolor like a sacrament
Is raised to bless the lonely and together.
In the barred window ten o’clock puts free
Gilt on the potted lily; air outside
Stirs up to scent the petalled plum-tree tide
Boiling surf-white on the blue ether-sea.
Sheltered by iron, washed and dressed and fed
Resistant to motion foreign as a wing
Before it moves the sea, behind it, spring,
This docile audience of sentient dead.
Repeating white on blue, the seascape screen
Crests, crashes, curdles; on this dim locked beach
Neat sit the mad old women, (cautious, each
Gray secret face raised quietly,) between.
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