by Elizabeth Trew
In the top bunk I listen to sounds in the dark –
voices far-off and the sleepers’ breathing
over the wheels clickety-clack on the tracks.
Waking at dawn I look down and see the old woman
sitting still by the window
after she opens the blind to check herself in the glass.
Back home I look out at another day
and picture the grandmother
utterly composed in her stillness, nourishing her light.