BY CHANCE

Up ahead

a figure rounds the corner,

an alien silhouette

encompassing wheels and angular legs.

Slowly the puzzle is resolved:

an elderly woman trailing trolley and bags,

clutches a small table,

its dark wooden limbs

making good its escape from

the carrier bag stretched pointlessly over its top.

Her each step is a feat.

Rain hat pulled low over silvery curls,

its ties dissect folds of neck;

a slash of red lips

below rheumy eyes

punctuate her parchment pallor.

‘Can I give you a hand?’

Across her face splashes 

a cocktail of emotions

settling into startled relief at my offer,

and so, with mutual baby steps, we journey slowly homeward,

her bound legs

sausage-like in shape and hue.

We begin to blether,

exchanging glances and snippets -

our shared neighbourhood;

the similarity of our names;

the duration of her life, alone;

the table –

newly purchased for a pittance,

just the thing, in time for tea.

With rasping breath

final stairs are mounted

and fumbled keys open wide the door to home

where the precious table is safely stowed.

Now, for me, the hardest part:

to leave amid a shower of thanks,

confirming isolation so intense

that such an act,

should ‘make’ her lonely day.