The fine art of disappearing

I recall a disappearing handkerchief

waving as if in surrender,

but moving further away

smaller and smaller

along the slow curve of a Railway track.

Mother was holding my hand,

I don’t remember what was happening

But I felt sad because she was crying.

It was quiet for a long time after

And nobody told me anything.

I want to talk to that child,

But he has gone.

Like the handkerchief, disappeared.

Now I am here with no hand to hold

the slow curve has closed its circle.

From my carriage I look back

The small boy is waving from a Platform,

smaller and smaller.

A faceless woman clutches his hand

We recede, we all recede.