The form is lithe, familiar,
A silhouette in bold relief
Emerged from the morning crowd,
Muting the surrounding multitudes
Who pass in waves each morning,
Their grey eyes, their grey coats
Moving, like me, in a depressed muddle,
Granted no relief,
Until today, now years hence,
The umbrellas part under the pall of fog
For a brief reveal, a respite from pain,
Momentarily freed from the unknowing,
Granted peace that she is alright,
Beautiful, serene, assured,
Belonging to no one but herself.