In a Waiting Room

Old magazines curling at the corners
Noticeboards covered with fading papers
A box of toys battered and broken

Old people curling at the corners
Young girls fading away with anorexia
An alcoholic, battered and broken

The Watcher

She was once one of those
who day after day
ran down the hill,
returning laden,
more slowly then
with bags to balance.

She was once one of those
who clutching hands,
one son either side,
challenged the icy slope
and skated, laughing
down the hill.

She was once one of those
who raced downhill
each morning
to join the queue
waiting on the main road
for the bus to work.

But now, she sits
while others
rush down to the bus,
down to the shops,
and she remembers
what she was once.