I still recall that moment of looking up and seeing

A white room and a party going on 

and I was standing with some friends 

under a large gilt-framed mirror 

that tilted slightly forward 

over the fireplace. 

We were drinking whiskey 

and some of us, feeling no pain, 

were trying to decide 

what precise shade of yellow 

the setting sun turned our drinks. 

I closed my eyes briefly, 

then looked up into the mirror: 

a woman in a green dress leaned 

against the far wall. 

She seemed distracted, 

the fingers of one hand 

fidgeted with her necklace, 

and she was staring into the mirror, 

not at me, but past me, into a space 

that might be filled by someone 

yet to arrive, who at that moment 

could be starting the journey 

which would lead eventually to her. 

Then, suddenly, my friends 

said it was time to move on. 

This was years ago, 

and though I have forgotten 

where we went and who we all were, 

I still recall that moment of looking up 

and seeing the woman stare past me 

into a place I could only imagine, 

and each time it is with a pang, 

as if just then I were stepping 

from the depths of the mirror 

into that white room, breathless and eager, 

only to discover too late 

that she is not there. 

 

[Mark Strand {1934-2014} ‘Mirror’, from New Selected Poems]