You lower your gaze
To your feet.
A hand emerges
From deep within a woollen sleeve
And pushes a few strands of
Yellowish-brown hair
Back over a yellowish-brown ear.
Your lips part minutely,
And yet so generously.
Standing under a flickering streetlight
We have been sent back.
Back to a time when
Colour was an idea
That you read about in books
When you should have been working hard
In the fields.
Toiling in flannel and corduroy.
But now I notice your brow is furrowed,
Eyes cast expectantly upward.
I have been staring but not listening.
I send a prayer out
Into the night sky above,
Silent and profound,
And lean down into you
To hear yours.
Agitation of hands. Strength of words. 