‘Stroke of the eye’

A woman with beans works
Uncomplaining, shuffling them
On wooden platters

Before the eye
Of a prying city
Turning to what’s believed

Is distant past,
Almost forgotten now,
Where all remains

Unchanged: how long
Do we suppose
This stroke of eye

Will leave us satisfied
With likeness,
Or her,

With likeness
To our unreal world,
Not troubled?