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Liz Hall artist writer performer
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Journey
She swings her bag at the pigeons outside the station;
sends them scattering. Face turned to the sky, she laughs
at the flack flack of their wings as they fly up. I watch
my womanly child, ecstatic at the commotion she has caused.
Inside, I hold her shoulders; Listen to me, this is important,
you change at Bedford. She holds her tongue
between her teeth, head to one side like learning to read,
and nods as though she understands how the world
is supposed to work . She takes her ticket from me.
I straighten her coat like I am adjusting a life-jacket,
check the departure board for signs of storms,
and ease her through the crowd to the point
where we part. She delights at the sight of the train
and as she turns to me I hear the anticipation
in her goodbyes, feel the distraction
in her hug. She climbs up into the carriage,
sits, and we sign to each other through the window,
pull faces and giggle - nonsensical, loaded.
The shrill whistle pulls me back. The train shudders
and rolls out of the station, like a dice from a cup.
I walk away. Out into sunshine, through busy pigeons,
the flack flack of their wings as they fly up.