Eyes like crazed glass, she stares
down the empty sun-swathed
avenue, conjuring his return.
Her hands clench the table,
manicured fingers transfer heat
and sweat to antique mahogany.
Sirens echo from the foreshore.
Blood of someone’s small son
seeps from his helmet, bicycle twisted,
under tangled limbs. All he wanted
was an ice cream, to be a big boy,
alone, astride his bike. She paces the room,
gazes at the clock, feels the tick of time.
Her hands itch for purpose. Drawn again
to the window, she stands to watch and wait.
Sheena is Irish but has lived in Nottingham for almost forty years. Following retirement, she began writing and now has an MA in Creative Writing from Trent University.
She has been published in The Beacon, Reach, Sarasvati, Dawntreader and Orbis.