Silhouette On A Staircase in Swindon
Through the windscreen's wipered half-moon,
up ahead, I see tail-lights flash red.
My foot pushes down. The car halts
stock-still in a lane of the M4.
I glance sideways to a towerblock
a column of light on the staircase
and the silhoutte of a soul
female - the angled skirt - careering
down its corkscrew of dead air
in exuberant escape
from grey-carpeted officeness
like a stream reaching the plateau's edge
and plunging recklessly.
I muse on her as I tune into the traffic news,
an accident has resulted in long delays.
Bored, I turn again to the towerblock
and see for the first time
its bold neon sign: Hospital
and its empty staircase
down which she had run
not from something but to.