Read this poem, and then answer the question that follows it: The Lost Woman... My mother went with no more warning than a bright voice and a bad pain Home from school on a June morning And where the brook goes under the lane I saw the back of a shocking white Ambulance drawing away from the gate. She never returned and I never saw Her buried. So a romance began. The ivy-mother turned into a tree That still hops away like a rainbow down The avenue as I approach. My tendrils are the ones that clutch. I made a life for her over the years. Frustrated no more by a dull marriage She ran a canteen through several wars. The wit of a cliché-ridden village She met her match at an extra-mural Class and the OU summer school. Many a hero in his time And every poet has acquired A lost woman to haunt the home, To be compensated and desired, Who will not alter, who will not grow A corpse they need never get to know. She is nearly always benign. Her habit Is not to stride at dead of night. Soft and crepuscular in rabbit- Light she comes out. Hear how they hate Themselves for losing her as they did. Her country is bland and she does not chide. But my lost woman evermore snaps From somewhere else: 'you did not love me. I sacrificed too much perhaps, I showed you the way to rise above me And you took it. You are the ghost With the bat-voice, my dear. I am not lost.' (Patricia Beer)