She’s over-wrought, stuck in a
migraine of silence,
barred from public space.

Born too early for Pankhurst’s
‘chains’ of freedom,
trapped in a scold’s bridle of

anger: defined as mother, wife,
someone else’s little helper –
a support, a strong fence.

In her mind’s eye
she’ll become a welder, a
jail-breaker, bender of bars,

dressed in red, railing
against the world in the
dead man’s hour.

She’s up here on Castle Hill
shoulder to shoulder with drinkers,
dog baiters, cock-fighters.