There's something going on between these girls,
the way the three have pushed the fourth aside.
She sits across the aisle pretending not to mind,
tries to listen to them, nods and smiles,
wraps close her coat to accommodate the man
whose seat she shares, who asks the time,
makes the others stare as though, just talking to him,
confirms what they've believed for years.

That she's not one of them,
although she ought to be –
same school, sleepovers,
nights at Rock City .

They are three English roses
and she's an olive branch,
straight backed to their soft curves.
Her smile is something you can believe in,
whilst theirs, you feel, could turn.

They haven't even told her
where they're getting off.
Maybe Hockley to double back
for the tangled comfort of Ice Nine
or round to Market Street ,
the urgent keeping up
with those who don't quite
want her there.

And I know she'd hate it
if I said to her that she's the one
who'll last, the one I'd love to paint,
if I knew how.

©Rosie Garner