The FTSE Index

When she received the first prize at the school beauty pageant,
Ophelia had her picture taken
for the local newspaper.
She was something special, that girl.
 
From that day onwards, the market opened early
and people queued to buy her flower baskets.
Her stark essence divided the neighbourhood
to the point of a civil war.
 
Under the veil, her frozen eye glowed on every screen;
for thousands of followers she became an emoji.
Even the FTSE index registered a sharp rise and,
overnight, the inflation dropped with two percent.
 
She went on to work at the Post Office; five days a week she
issued receipts, adding kisses to each letter stamp.
Ophelia sprayed fresh bread perfume on her glass desk.
At lunchtime, she neatly sat on a bench opposite South Bank,
and watched the parade with a white book on her lap.          
 
When I saw her again, after years of absence,
one day in Montpellier Square,
she had lost her hair, she had taken a vow of silence.
She blankly walked towards me, holding an empty paper bag.