Two ladies climb, slowly, a hill of steps.
She that's in front is large, with a cruel gaze;
cropped top, cheapo pensioner mode; cross-faced.
The one behind, much older, is quite slim.
Her clothes fit her. Her hair, lifted by a wind's
belly, buzzing them, holds the stylist's shape.
She passes, her face kind and intelligent.
I wait for the other to stop clambering, and turn.
But she does not cease. At the hill's brow - walks
out of sight quickly without looking back.
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