and barefoot I return home.
The trees are covering the street lights,
my hand on the far side of your wrist
and all that withstands pain.
People in bus queues, they lean and sway
and put down bags and take them up again.
Death steals us back.
And tonight someone is whistling as they
walk along the pavement
is taking stride after stride with air in
is wearing clothes that fit and move
is carrying objects dear to them
is walking home never the same again.
© Elaine Randell 1976