She is gone now from The Common, she has left Nth Wales, her homeland. Old Myra left us singing, ginger wine bottle gripped in grubby hand.
She lives though in memory, and a letter written, to an odd young man who disliked beets. She welcomed me to join her, have a warm by smoky fire, sit with her through a night of wind and sleet.
“I was sure she was a wood-sprite” I told Godfrey of her years hence,”I did not think she would photograph. But I have a picture of old Myra singing to the police up at the Greenham Fence.
Twinkle in her blue eyes, unself- concious that she wore two long muddy overcoats and more than one knitted wooly hat. Old Myra spoke in song, as Godfrey did in rhyme. Resonating still her keening from the Newbury Jail Yard, all her life she stood for truth and justice , she found her peace, we carry on in a world without Myra, cold and hard.
..She smoked Silk Cut Purples. She drank a bit, whiskey and her ginger wine. (Oh we rolled her home some evenings, tucked her in her tent) And she snitched my woolen long johns, but for that she is forgiven. For Old Myra left us singing when she went…