Alone, I wait for the green
light at a T junction. In my rear view
mirror, mother and daughter, blonde curls, matching
smiles, laughing, chatting, trading
glances, milky eyed reflections of one
another, safe as air bubbles in fused
glass; on their way home from Asda or ballet or violin
class or fish and chips with grandma after swimming
or Maeve’s birthday party and the promise of girl
guiding. The lights change, I turn
away from the crimson
city, away from the sighs of cherry blossom
in the ranked rows of trees on the riverside
as petals freeze to pink ice in the chill.
The Purple Hermit 