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Angela McEwan Jun 2019
"Jumper'. Seems to be the word to use.
Not a fluffy, woolly, jumper
or a long jumper.
But a jumper none the less.

You stood in the shelter on the platform.
Avoiding the rain like any sensible soul would.
You're shuffly, but seem normal. Another commuter
waiting for the next train.

The droning intonation crackles over the speaker:
"The next train does not stop here."
You don't stand back from the platform edge.
Stepping out into the rain (why is he getting wet? I wonder)

You calmly stroll towards the edge, brazenly crossing the yellow line.
The penny drops. So do you.
A casual step like going down a staircase.
A thud, a rushing train. You're gone.

Red stains the tracks.
As I frantically dial 999 I can't even see you beyond a few parts,
surely not parts of a human?
A jumper. Not a fluffy woolly jumper.

"The next train at platform 4 is delayed. Please stand by for further announcements.
Angela McEwan May 2019
It seems that every thing was defined by time
trickling away from me.
My biological clock was ticking,
time was running out, the window was closing.
Back then, time was something I wished to avoid,
its ever rapid diminishment meant the end of opportunities,
of life.

Now, it is a different story.
Time is a wolf coming to devour me.
"When's the due date?" "How far along are you?"
They may as well ask for the date of my execution.
As time no longer creeps but now hurtles towards me.
I now cling to the bump I used to resent,
terrified of what will soon come in its place.

Will I run out of time? Will time toss me aside?
Angela McEwan Apr 2019
Day by day you grow inside me,
Sometimes you are a gift,  I glow I’m vibrant.
Other days you are an anchor
I drag you around and all you do
Is grow and grow and ******* grow.

“The Bump" they all call you
The sort of thing we're told to check our ******* for
My mind retreats from these comparisons but they linger
I’m tired. You eat away at me,
No matter how much “I eat for two" or three or four.

It’s the quiet times when I appreciate you.
Away from the pecking hens and grasping hands.
Peace.
I can just sit, rest my hand upon you and feel your warmth
At those times we feel as one.

— The End —