Poetry Friday 20

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Twenty, that's one fifth of a hundred. And it keeps rolling on, and on. Like a bad penny it keeps coming back.

Changes

She stares.

Her eyes drinking in

every detail of the familiar.

How the back has more hair now

than the head.

The belly is rounder

The legs look shorter.

His arm still bulge

with muscles and strong shoulders.

He doesn’t smile.

He used to.

Does she love him?

Or does she love a memory of him

which lurks in the shadows

of her mind?

Is she the cause of what she sees?

Or would it have happened

without her?

If she leaves, will he recover

that lost sense of joie de vivre?

And then, would she love him

again?

Boy on the Platform

He clutches

his ticket in his tiny hand.

To him it’s gold

like the leaves on the trees.

He’s dressed for cold,

for winter squalls,

but autumn sun

bathes his face.

His feet dangle

from the bench

 it will be years

until they reach the platform.

He waits patiently

staring at the locomotives

the carriages, the uniforms, 

and breathing in the smells

marveling at the everyday

magic of the station.

Bride to be

Forty four times she mentioned her wedding.

Forty four times in 15 minutes.

As grey clouds floated across blue skies

and the train rattled though the rolling hills

she left her fellow passengers

in no doubt

that she was soon to be wed.

Join me next week for Poetry Friday 21

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