The Lady Who Walks Alone In Autumn drizzle a single footfall is heard In deserted Nuneaton street Waiting for a fickle sun to break cover And stacked plastic chairs by canal side pub Cling to each other with damp kisses, A brisk breeze zips through hope and time despairs As the lady walks alone. Fires of passion in motion on mountain side Cannot escape to plains below To hide in soft bladed grass of fantasy emotion So life sighs for the lady who walks alone.
Piercing crimson cloud white vapour trail of a jet liner Marks the sky with a sign of isolation. The image lingers in her mind leaving time to tell Of the lady who walks alone. Wishful thinking carries her dreaming into night, But morning breaks the fantasies and she knows Today is present reality to be lived and endured, For she is the lady who walks alone. Beneath copper beach trees of late autumn Holding hand shaped leaves in surrender, To coming winter she no longer stands In the shadow they cast for free at last, Is the lady who walks alone.
Pat Bidmead Nuneaton