Mary, in the wind

Part of a poem about an imaginary woman called Mary, to the guitar music played by Dave Pickett and improvised movement by Fran Hajilou.

Mary always wore a smile, when she did her café job,

She’s 31, a single Mum, with a short brown bob,

Raised on manners to be pleasant and polite,

she started wearing this smile even when things weren’t alright

and she was always trying to “get it right”

Until it seemed,

that there was no one left for Mary to please

as she sat and ate fried potato salted with cheese,

she felt her weight, weigh heavy on her knees

internally, she said “I can’t face me”

She lived in Luton town,

was Sunday and she sat wonky in her dressing gown,

and for some reason she softened the sculpture of her definitive frown

and felt the diminuendo of her world slow down..

As she sat in what felt like this infinite space,

relaxed all the muscles on her face,

welcomed in this sense of grace

Realigned her spine

as if connecting with something divine

Once her internal dialogue was gone,

telling her that everything she did was wrong,

seemed she could move more like a tree that was strong

and the whole town changed colour.