Balls, light dances past.
Old yellow bulbs, holding hands.
Reflecting on the carriage windows.
Sky in deep blue, the lights now reflect off of her neat glasses.
Hands folded in her lap,thick
straps of a waitrose bag
entangle there.
Deep comfort gives way to pure ecstatic wonder.
Doors slide open, revealing
a mystical landscape.
A low wall, hedgerow and bushes, and a spot ilt platform.
Only sightly in relief
it could be flat.
Hedges make way for the little wall.
Three bricks high it is made to look like faux dry stone walling.
Patiently
she steps out of the doors under a glass box,
lit, the words say ‘way out’.
Written in round leaden text.
Air raid siren script.
She steps away, lightly.
She steps away, like a nymph lightly.
She steps onto a floating orb of light.
That was floating along side the train,
following us here.
The orb bobs as she tap, tap,
steps lightly from one orb onto another.
Waitrose bag swinging,
composure so light.
She is a nymph, as she steps away, her mouth shut tight.
As a purse, into the night.
No comments:
Post a Comment