Gill Horitz
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Woolf’s Cento
I dislike the sight of women shopping,
poor pinched women, mastered
by circumstances, life allowed to waste
like a tap left running on the verge of civilisation,
on the outskirts of Fulham.
I daresay this isn’t quite true.
They lie like vast consciences
in our most secret drawers.
In a book they would drift
hopelessly apart.
I begin to loathe my kind.
How many friends have I got?
All I can do is unsay all I have said.
Bodies were seen yesterday
coursing downstream.
Does the weather prompt suicide?
On such a day one would need
to be of solid emerald to burn
with any flame and not dissolve in grey atoms.
Note: Texts from The Diary of Virginia Woolf, Volume 1: 1915-19
Published Orbis 196