Phasmida the Stick Insect Woman   She selects my leafy café where the camouflage is good, it suits a bone-thin woman whose limbs are stiff as wood.   Sitting apart, alone, she devours a lettuce lunch ignoring those nearby beneath another branch.   When finishing her coffee she licks the last few dregs then, using lanky arms, assembles whittled legs.   I watch her step away unsmiling and stoic, leaning on those legs like worn out walking sticks. Suzanne Edgar