Blind Woman at Clapham Junction

Except her eyes, purple sea anemones wedged
under the crevice of her brow, everything about her
was white – hair, skin, stick. She bled
around the edges, outshone to insubstantial paleness
by the neon orange jacket of the guard, who was holding her arm
as they walked crabwise through the puddle in the gutter.
There she caught her stick a split second on the platform
and set the puddle all a-flutter like a windsock made of mercury.
She sat stiff-necked, watching hawklike
at something unimaginable - who knows? Maybe everything
is dark and thick when you are blind, or white and misty -
while we waited for the 3.57 to Basingstoke.