A PASSING GLANCE

By Aaron Tweed

On a train to Belfast, Botanic.

The rain lashes almost horizontally outside.

The usual reverie occupies me.

Then I see her.

Or rather, her reflection.

She sees mine. But does she see me?

Our eyes connect – locked in stasis

Describing the shape of an arrowhead

Out the glass layer that lines the train.

It speeds past blurred hedges and trees

As four eyes focus

On the fingerprint laden window before it.

In an attempt to decipher what lies beyond it.

The heart quickens amid this cacophony of senses.

This arrowhead is like a laser

Forming from the optical nerves.

Yet, our eyes have not met directly.  Not yet.

Do we truly see?

This window remains a barrier

A barrier where hopes lie incomplete and yearning.

This glass becomes a mirror.

I begin to see myself, or part of me.

She looks away.  Her stop.

Lanyon Place.  I think.

I see the letters flick across the sign.  Too late.  It changes,

The next stop is…

I return my eyes to their resting place

As the hedges hurl themselves towards the old trees.

The next one perhaps…

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