By Eileanor Crilly
Faces in the street Of people you never meet, All below the darkened sky Of early grey november. A flash of flaxen hair, A whip of rainbow scarf, A glint of golden necklace, As the horde passes by, Busy going somewhere; School, shopping, work, home. Power walking their way through life, A thousand silent destinations Held firmly in their minds. The human eye looks for familiarity, Scans the crowd for a kind smile, A pretty mane, A furrowed brow, In each visage that trespasses its field of vision. What is it looking for, A new friend, lover or foe? Or is it just looking, Like it always does At the faces in the street Of people you never meet.