the farewell

The Farewell

A blustery day, early June,
I was going on
the train mother
followed me to the station,
she wore a dirty old coat and
hadn’t combed
her hair or washed her face,
she looked like
a bag lady, amongst
the nicely dressed people.
A shower of hailstones,
she waved, I didn’t,
in case people thought
she was my mother.
The train was five minutes late.