You, At The Front Door

Now that I am outside the house,

I can hear the glass beads on the jug.

I see you, bent, at the radiogram,

a record, Sailor, close to your glasses.

I can hear the click, too, of the arm,

then Pet Clark – Sailor, stop your roaming –

and your light feet on the floral carpet.

 

The house has changed now.

Someone made it bigger and stole the front door.

That was the best bit, save for you.

You stood there, leaning at the door frame

and you looked wise and old and lovely.

I have been past a few times.

Today I stopped.

 

It is foolish to expect you to be there.

Perhaps you are,

scattering grain or sinking a silver spade.

Forgive me.

It is you who should weep.

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