On Oxford Street

 

On Oxford Street a woman, falls straight as a Christmas tree

onto the pavement, suddenly dead in pink coat and hat, handbag

firmly clenched and eyes wide, staring at the sky.

Walking behind her, part of the morning throng, I had noticed

her purposeful walk, her style; a country-woman I concluded;

and then she was quite obviously dead.

The crowds flow past, she’s a boulder in their stream.

I consider in an instant what must be done, what is right,

and consider it long enough for it to be someone else’s consideration.