Stranger

(Written March 2000)

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I noticed you, sitting opposite me

On the packed Piccadilly-line train, between

Covent Garden and Leicester Square

Going North bound

Through the rush hour crush

At ten past eight on a Monday morning.

I wondered if you

Had noticed me.

You were wearing

A suit (just like everybody else

On that crowded rush-hour train,

A monotonous mass

Of black, grey and navy, the occasional

Newspaper or umbrella

Thrown in for good measure).

Your dark grey trousers were neatly creased

And three shiny pens peeped out from the

Right hand breast pocket

Of your light grey jacket.

You wore a baby blue shirt,

And a plain, unfussy tie

Clipped with a gold pin,

Which matched your cufflinks.

On the middle finger of your

Left hand you wore

A chunky gold ring. Its black stone

Had embossed on it, in gold,

Two horses, manes and tails flying.

I wondered if you liked horses,

And if so, whether it was

Just to look at, or if you rode

At the weekends, or simply when you

Had some spare time.

Maybe the horses, heads back,

Ears pricked, reminded you of the

Freedom you did not have

Chained to an office desk

Or stuck

In the rush-hour crush

Of a North bound

Piccadilly-line train, at ten past eight on a

Monday morning.

Maybe you just liked the ring.

You got off at Leicester Square

I wondered if you worked nearby,

Or were changing for the Northern-line

To travel off

In the direction of Golders Green and

High Barnett.

I wondered if you caught this train every day,

And if so, why I hadn’t seen you before,

Or, if I’d seen you before, why I hadn’t noticed you,

Or maybe why I had noticed you today.

I wondered – if I’d gone up to you

Between Covent Garden and Leicester Square

And said

‘I like your ring’

What you would have replied.

I wondered what it would be like to know you,

To be your friend,

Your daughter,

Your mother

You.

I wondered if you were wondering,

And if so, what about.

I wondered what you would think

If you knew I was wondering this.

Later, writing this poem,

I wondered whether, in years to come,

If I were a famous poet

And you read this poem

You would recognise yourself.

And if you did, and you came to me and said:

‘I am the stranger from your poem’

Would I recognise you?

Your black hair?  Your sapphire eyes?

Your equine ring?

I search the faces on the train for yours,

But every face stares back a stranger’s,

And you are gone forever

I wonder why I care.

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