The Sunday lunchtime surge is over.
Clearing crisp packet origami
from parasoled tables
she inhabits the limbo between
now and when.
Checking her watch she looks forward
and catches the wind.

In a poltergeist moment
the glass in her hand fills with sand.
Time did not stop.
She did.
Disbelieving, she turns,
only convinced by the dying umbrella and
the grit in her eyes.

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