Waiting

A dewy path,

bowed snowdrops,

footprints on the grass.

You are not here now;

the door is closed.

I see the tomatoes

at attention,

potatoes’ in the grey earth;

the hoe, leaning,

the little scoop,

shed door off its hinge.

Your seat is as it was,

pink and comfy,

the curtains drawn, just so.

The books are on the table.

Unread.

They wait.

For your lovely eyes

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