I was at Crewe station
I had a call to make
from one of the old pay-phones.
After, I went to sit on a wooden bench
to wait for the onward connection.
A nun came to sit beside me.
An omen I thought.
I wondered whether to ask her to pray.
But decided not to intrude
on her silence,
the black and white of her habit.
My Mother’s death caught instead
between the insistent rumbling
of the tracks
and the cooing of feral pigeons.