You did not see me as you left the platform,
turned through the swivel gate and crossed the road ̶
the safety barrier still down.
I called your name and the wind blew words back
into me. I gained pace until I was almost parallel,
the lines of speeding cars between us now.
I did not call again but watched your coat blow back,
your left hand resting on your stomach, head bowed
as if talking to the baby inside.
You were never so close to me, never so far away:
like in the film of Dr Zhivago, in the final frames
we see their love-child for the last time:
a plain business-like girl with a headscarf,
quite unromantic in herself, who hurries home
with her young man, a balalaika on her shoulder.
I saw the film my first weekend in college.
I still remember that sunlight through winter trees,
Julie Christie’s hair, Omar Sharif’s gaze, love’s despair,
as if here I could never cross this road to hug you
or that we would walk forever in parallel lines
like the railway tracks in the film, glinting, stretching.
From: Other Routes
