Waiting for Him to Come Home
Darkness.
Her mouth is dry. Every faint sound in the night she hears, Every distant whisper of wheels, one man walking Miles away on a road without a name. Her fingers scramble among the matches To find solace in smoke. Her throat is dry. Darkness. Out by the gate She stood, bones slowly chilling, for five Minutes, or ten, maybe more after the train The last train to run, had rumbled away Rattling crockery in the kitchen And all the lights in the station Yard went out. Darkness. The house is clean, All the tiny, careful things that pleased him Done, and ready for welcome; small son Put to bed with a promise, Dad will come And see you later on and kiss you Goodnight, wearing his funny Policeman’s hat. Darkness. The friendly flickering Chatter of television clicks to silence. The cats have fled noiseless into the moonlight Among the hedgehogs and the milk-bottles. Fires are out, the chicken-house door Is jammed hard down Against the fox. Darkness. Her eyes are dry. To deaden the ache of fear he taught her reason, Hard for a woman, a slow pill to swallow When all is done for a tired man to sleep - Milk boiled, bed warm - This night empty of him. Her heart is dry. |