Urgency hangs in the air,
replacing the smoke of yesteryear’s trains
with commuter chaos.
Bustling to and fro,
potential passengers;
each in their own bubble,
each with their own place to go.
I stand below the old clock tower.
Its hands counting down the minutes
that for me stand still
as the world spins by.
I wait -
a silent spectator,
a bypassed bystander -
in my quarantine dreaming.
Snared in time suspended,
as luggage is left unattended,
my lone soul stands unbefriended
until
my bubble bursts
as you appear.
© Sheila Ash 24th September 2016
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