I dreamed you came home.
Just a snatch of dream
among a boiling mirrorful.
'Came home' - that phrase betrays a naive hemisphere
may trawl us into late dementia.
I am no Heathcliffe,
though may have his temper -
this house undistinguished on a flat plain.
Your hair was short and tousled;
you looked haggard in the grey hour
on the flagstones outside my porch,
clutching an overnight bag,
as I flung open the door.
All so cosmically unlikely, it embarrassed me to dream -
just to see you in my ill-sleep startled lucidity.
This morning 'Tesco' dropped a letter through
that same porch - 'Opticians' hopeful of a renew
I presume - too late for this address.
by twenty long months of varying stress.
Yet more hope than I;
since they have fingers in every pie.
..
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
PoetryIvy-jacketed, December oaks on road-borders shock their stark gestures at us now, through sun and sleet, that January will yawn at and February, propping eyelids, will desperately ignore, longing for blossom; and making do with the least of anything...
