A struggling poet, with two sons to provide for after her husband's suicide, gives a fascinating account of the fringes of literary life.

Remarkable... Her story is told with touching clarity.
Perth Courier and Advertiser

Between Crewe and Manchester, sleeping opposite me in the same compartment, sat a beautiful creature in African dress. She was the first black person I had ever encountered. The image was indelible:

She carried her parcels tied in a red bandana.
On this she rests her head as the lumbering train,
Mumbling and murmuring rumours of destination,
Cradles the pouting child
Trapped in a stoic journey of long endurance.

Her coat was bought in haste at a church bazaar,
For she had not learned that the sun
Would not, of necessity, rise, or would ever be cold
As Mehdani who searches all night through the hills
For the drum - throbbing fingers of darkness.

Her cotton skirts, volumous, loosely draped
In the manner of Caesar's wife, and above suspicion,
Are touched with the colours that flame in a parakeet's tail.
She can never have learned that so great a profusion of colours
Will lower prestige...

© The estate of Patricia Doubell