time stops

photo by Tess
Time stops in a crowd where I feel alone. People become bumper poles. Bells in the distance halt in mid chorus. The first notion is to pick pockets of bulging wallets from the frozen statues, uncork tight wedding bands, even fill my pocket with inexpensive satsumas from the tilted basket in front of the Magpie market. But I stand still watching my breath, imagining being back home in front of the fire with you instead. Sure, I could pawn the loot and buy that ticket. Returning to the simple little gift of being alone with you. The smell of your hair. Your pale blue eyes. Slow sleigh rides and your smile on Sunday. I miss you. The proprietor is moving again and is yelling for the constable. Ah, the satsumas were too small to juggle anyway. Dear old England has clearly started once more.