A woman, late-forties, platform four, running late.
Her Susan Boyle curls bop in time with her pace.
Flashes of fuchsia from
shocking pink socks,
echo the shade of her
A man calls out to catch
her train or attention.
She glances, but doesn’t turn
as she boards, carries on
composing herself. She takes a seat.
Deep breaths of effort and beads of relief.
Inspecting the indent of a ring on her finger,
mops her brow and collects her thoughts.