An old man passed me in the high street,
he was uneven in both gait and expression.
I gazed steadfastly at the dress in the window,
guiltily unwilling to add a further burden
to an already overburdened there and now.
The price to pay seemed reasonable,
and I thought that perhaps some childish
hour had come again; a young girl poised
on the cusp, but I could sense a hesitation
behind me as desire vied with compassion.
It darkened then, a typically November
caprice, and instantly the price tag
became as though it had no principle at all.
So I turned, but just a little too late;
He was gone, leaving an imprint that
will remain as indelible as his winter.
Rebecca Jane Munday. November 2017