Davina

In a supermarket yard, her lovely face washed, by rain and river salt, dressed always decent, her trolley for a brush, she looks at their blankets, lost spirits without spark, they lie here to rest, it's a rare clerk, who won't get upset, put to the test, pitying their tents, life here is stark, in ways that they forage, then rage like storks, think only of the present, tear at their crusts, make out for the best, last in some chart, if life is a sequence, she gives them her heart, stops for the vagrants.