Control

Control

She’s there every morning,
an eighty something woman
in a peacock green, fur-trimmed coat.
She gets the 8.15 train to Birkenhead.
I watch her now across the rail lines
under my black umbrella
on my crowded platform.

Her arthritic hands sit obediently in her lap,
her face upwards and to one side-
a crooked elegance on a lone stage.
Her quick eyes charm me.
But sometimes they stare-
Through me,
through the yellow gauze of her bench -
minutes staring at weeds in the concrete.
Sometimes we watch each other.

She’s still gazing as the train approaches,
gazing through the ground as rain splinters
white tunnels of growing headlights.

It’s only 8.10 and it’s the express train.

She’s teetering over the yellow line,
jumping high, bright with years of neglected energy -
for a moment I think she’ll stop the train.

Cameron Rew