‘I’ve left my mate with the masking tape’,
Your parting shot, and you’re off to stop
His sellotape shadow unravelling,
Not me.
‘Goodbye darling.’
A starling throws itself from the platform to the track,
I try to shout ‘stop’ but you both disappear.
Breath held instead, until the bird returns,
Beak bearing gifts for its young.
Not you.
You’re gone before I can say, ‘Listen, it’s me that has to leave.’
Listen.
‘The next train to arrive on platform two will be the 1300 to Manchester Piccadilly,
Calling at…’
It’s still too far away to see the new arrival, blurred by sun light high.
I squint, shadows split the station’s eaves,
Me beneath.
Platformed between light and shade,
An Atlas holding up the sky.
Image by Michael Gaida from Pixabay
The Cabinet of Heed 