“The weary maids of Arcachon”

Their heads bowed low, too heavy for the weight on their shoulders
Heads tilted, bowing to the sun in all its glory
A haunting chorus of rustling, like ladies in silk petticoats
With their bow buckled shoes, trampling leaves underfoot
Aprons stained and torn

These old maids, too many to count, in their weariness and ageing bodies Reminiscent of their once beautiful blonde tresses in all their glory
And sun kissed brown velvet faces turning towards the sun

Their comradely whispers as they stand in the fields, heads bent
Legs spindly from loss of youth and energy, whispering in the rustling
Of those happy memories when once they held their heads high in their glory days

But now as they reflect on the passing mistral and the lack of water
On their now parched skins, And the wanton neglect from all who
Witnessed them in their magnificent form

The weary old maids of Arcachon surrender to the earth
The rich soil from which they were once planted

Oh how my heart weeps for the old maids of Arcachon
Who once stood tall in all their finery!
For never more will they bow to the sun with their golden bonnets or
Reclaim that moment of glory

Alas, the weeping maids of Arcachon

Marie Merton