She is scooped out and bow-like,
As if her string
Has been drawn tight.
But really she is
Plucking stones from the dirt
For her shoulder-bag.
It is her dead albatross,
Her cross, her choice,
In it lie her weapons.
Each granite sphere,
Or sea-worn flint,
Has weight against your sin.
You cannot win.
She calls you close,
But not to let you in, only
For a better aim.
Frieda Hughes
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