Beacon
Standing in a littered bus shelter a woman,
down on her luck, murmurs to no-one in particular
“This stonework gives me comfort -
this place isn’t going anywhere. It’ll be right
here when I need it… again.”
I’ve been keeping to myself, hyper-vigilant in the gloom,
less confident on night streets. Uncomfortable, alone.
Was she talking to me? I avert my eyes.
Her tangled hair, jacket grubby at the cuffs,
that scent that speaks of not enough soap and water.
It’s too close in here, too cold
Through the bus shelter glass we see,
rooted along this busy thoroughfare, a gothic cathedral
bleeding hope, kindness (and a hot meal) into
the greyness of a windy night, an amber glow
spilling through the leaded glass windows.
We stand, silent, waiting for the bus.
As it approaches, the rain finally lets up.
I step out with my transit pass in hand.
She exits the shelter and meanders westward.
“Even when the lights are off, they’re always on.”
She was talking to me after all.
