Overcast

The shadows go first.
At the bakery, a black hand lifts
before the baker knows which loaf to take.
On the bridge a shadow kneels.
The man behind it grips the rail.

Children practise keeping up.
They learn the half-step, the quick nod,
the laugh arriving in the throat
when its dark mouth has already opened.
An old woman waits for hers to weep.

Then cloud comes over the square.
She has never seen a hand held out
without the flat hand underneath it.
The boy beside her waits
for something on the paving to begin.

She opens her palm. It shakes.
He looks from it to the blank stones.
For once she has to hold it there
long enough
for him to decide.

Sun edges round the cloud.
Their shadows hurry back,
one arm each,
already joined.