One. Two. Three.
When she got up that morning, she looked in
on the children still in their beds. She went
downstairs and made sweet tea.

Holding hands in a line as they walk,
no looking back at the family house
they can’t afford anymore.

A wren on a gatepost pays them no heed.
Her eyes fill with tears. The wren flies away.

A train across Europe, counting long hours.
Trees zip past. A ferry. Another train.
An address on a piece of paper.
Not imagining the city or the next day.
She hums a waltz to the children,
one, two, three.

Two. Two. Three.
Black scarf to keep her warm,
accordion on her chest.
An empty waltz for shoppers,
you can almost sing along.

Back before she left him
they would have danced to this
on Friday nights, counting time
in Bucharest, in the dim lights
of the dance hall, a round of drinks
waiting at their table.
Endless night of footsteps
counting the time of their marriage,
two, two, three.

Three. Two. Three.
Harp music from up towards Piccadilly.
The blast of sound from HMV.
Always the same position against the pillar,
British Home Stores. This is the waltz
of a woman who has made herself invisible
by the lowering of her eyes.

Her children teach her English
though she never likes to speak it.
The same few notes every day.
The same faces of the shoppers everyday.
The same looks. The same empty waltz.
There is a woman on market street who
is not there. She is waiting without waiting,
counting out time, three, two, three.