The Library was her refuge:
through her thick lenses
she travelled far beyond
these sordid streets.
She lunched
with Byron and Yeats;
held off dervishes
with Gordon.
She was a true Bene Gesserit,
a Reverend Mother
of some note.
In the litter planted park
the Ten cursed and fought,
discussing,
monosyllabic,
the direction the evening
should take.
Their oversized clothing,
with uniform drabness,
prompted visions
of children
playing dress-up
in the rainy-day attic of a kinder world.
They surrounded
and devoured her
with their contrived anger.
Broken glasses,
scattered books,
ripped pages, lay mute
in the mud.
Her broken body
was serene and regal:
somewhen
the Sisterhood
mourned the passing
of a respected colleague,
and, at the siege of Khartoum,
Gordon fought on,
alone.
