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Another Gnonnet

July 1, 2009

Her Shoes Were White

Estella was the matter with Estella,
very true! Until the sun, the sky,
the way, her shoes were white. The
hopeless circumstances grew by
degrees, the effort of remembrance.
The old Estella wandered to the church,
the marsh. She wended in an iron trance,
her illness on a little tray. Birch,
sky, the convict’s breathing. Finches of
the shore. Go on, said the voice. A man
in that direction waits, like a glove.
Quickly. Before a week, a day. A man
in that direction. But Estella aspired
to the greatest coolness, and she were tired.

Text: Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

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