[Image Author’s Own]
She loved the way the woman held herself
erect as the cello beside her, the way
Frampton created curls to mirror that scroll:
so poised, and yet, music lay scattered around her.
Outer sign of inner turmoil? She wondered,
gazing fondly on the portrait. Around her,
the masses flowed, chattering, wondering,
contemplating in often postured manner
what it all could mean; just what did it mean?
She purchased a gift shop keepsake,
postcard remnant of the painting
to remember her musing by
in quieter moments, when she was alone.
He took her hand as they walked back,
feet blending with thousands of others
on the city streets, litter fluttering in the gutters
and the tongues of many countries spooling
around them, invading their ears as they communicated
silently, by gaze, by touch only.
The arches came into view and she knew,
knew before he did the moment of release,
the letting go her hand to enable they’re going away
from this place, the day; each other.
Lighting flickered down the tunnel, shadows
looming from above: one moved, rustled.
Her breath caught, fear of rats a phobia
passed down by blood ever since the time of plague.
Instead, the broody pigeon held her gaze.
Brush of his fingers on her cheek brought her back
to his farewell, the end of this month’s union
until the next. She imagined
her withheld tears filling the puddle by their feet.
[Copyright © N R Nolan 2016]