walk on - Ayesha Chouglay

when they leave, each back of the head, each hand,
slight on the train door,  

each long, dark coat, woollen, low lustre,
becomes an is it them, walnut in the stomach,  

till posture raddles them anew, and you set them on
the concourse, quietening, something drifting from the piano  

starnil perhaps, and I walk, heart pelting,
feeling for the break, families droving, bellwether up  

heading for the fold of the carriage, small red hands in
manicured tips, each a milk tooth,  

I, theave, thief-like, lose my way
in the station’s metal ribcage, past the make up  

counters, yan, tan, tethera, phone pulsing my side,
announcement ringing out, the orange and yellow tickets  

bright like lanolin, in our small, raw hands                                    



Note: Many of the words within this poem are linked to farming sheep.