In Transit by Joanna Boulter
Your shadow flicked once, twice, across my eye
after you’d died.
There on the station concourse
you passed among the crowd as though
we were the shades and you the solid body.
You didn’t speak, and nor did I,
our eyes did not quite meet.
There might have been others among that crowd
You were the one I recognized.
Though Stanley Spencer would have known them, seen
the hunch of wings beneath their anoraks.
As you’d been hunched beside the lower stairs
that day of cold,
your hands as white as bone in fingerless gloves
wrapping your fiddle back into its case.
I’m packing it in early you said.
And within months, you had.