14 FEBRUARY 1987, Page 40

Grandma in Winter

In her black shawl she moves over the field of snow With a slow proud strut, like a burgher Or a fat crow.

The raw sun has oozed on to the lint of cloud, A pretty smear of pain. The church gathers its little ones, The stone children, about its skirts And tells them an old story.

She will join them, stand perfectly still and quiet there. No one will notice her.

And when night unfolds Its old black umbrella with the little holes She will pray for the blond stones and the friable bones, The blue melted jellies; those white