She waited for the eclipse to dump him.
It felt right with her light so hidden
for so long by so changeable a man.
She slipped orbit outside Caffè Nero
on the Victoria Station concourse
after buying him a full fat mocha.
Soon the solar shadow closed over them.
Southern Rail pigeons drifted widdershins
in slow-motion as if underwater,
like the man, turning tie-less on the spot,
upper lip frothed with milk and she wondered
if she’d have loved him more with a moustache
or a dog, or a dangerous hobby.
Kissing him on the ear, she moved off
with the wave she plucked from her handbag
through the barriers to Platform 12
where down the tracks the sun spilled back
like the opening credits in a dark cinema
beyond Selhurst, Woodmansterne, Brighton
and all stations south to her sea without tides.
Awarded 1st prize at the 2105 Domineer International Literature Festival, Ireland
Mark Fiddes 