Passing Time

Passing Time

The train was rapidly passing a station

Whilst she was just slowly passing time

I was engrossed in observation

A commuter bred habit no reason or rhyme.

Oblivious to the noisy intrusion

Schoolchildren in scrambling homing haste

Uniform led hysteria infusion

With energy latent not a second to waste.

Bags slipping, legs tripping and slurpee spilling

All talking all listening one to another

Some thumbs cocked in raunchy text thrilling

Others phoning home today’s tales to their mother.

But she remained still, intent and focused

Propped casually in the far corner seat

Unruffled and tranquil, not at all nonplussed

At the physical fuss milling round her feet.

Her interaction with people was mental

Fictitious characters plied her mind

Through inspiring creations from Ruth Rendell

Or rather her alter ego Barbara Vine.

Totally absorbed she did not disengage

From the English author’s newest tale

The Minotaur’s intrigue on every page

Captivated her senses, was her Holy Grail.

Slightly hunched, bent forward with both feet planted

Perching her rucksack to suit her need

She formed on her lap a firm book prop slanted

For easy reading while traveling at high speed

On this trembling train in a giddy carriage

Chasing the warm winter setting sun

She read of four daughters from a weird marriage

And of John the haunting sad and self absorbed son.

Whilst she made no movement, did not flex or blink

The train’s rock n roll sideways traction

Made her pendulous aubergine earrings jink

And jive in a true sympathetic reaction.

Natural grey tints, subtle, rightly expressed

Her age, not young, just nicely mature

Oval glasses clearly not for reading best

Sat balanced atop of her neat, short cropped coiffure

Reflecting filtered sun, a prismatic look

Like the matching aubergine dress ring

On her left hand steadfastly gripping the book

Tight fingers the soft plastic cover impressing.

Her gaze still fixed, not at all animated,

The only gesture was her slim wrists

As from right to left she manipulated

Completed pages with deft repetitive twists.

On her well defined, small and elegant bones

The pallid skin seemed still young and taut

Her thin lips smiling, still erogenous zones,

Instilled in me base feelings I ought not have thought.

My stop was due and with her mind in the tome

I left her to the novel sublime

And an unknown ending to her journey home

We were just passing ships, she was just passing time.