Waiting.

A bright but cloudy afternoon.
Truculent flecks of rain dancing on cobwebs
That shimmer between wild rose trees
A delicate lethal beauty.

I walk in the garden, not minding the chill drops
That now and then flick against my skin
Enforcing a slight shiver.
I imagine arrows of ice, not the tears of traumatised children.

I am missing you, my girl, now trapped in the hospital
Until that morning when you can once more run,
Play ball with me for hours, turn cartwheels by the river.
Two years since you slipped and fell, it appears you are nearly better,

Or so the surgeon informs me, with simplistic anodyne words.
Meanwhile I walk alone, in the confines of my garden,
Waiting the expected call to make the box room ready;
Put flowers in vases; get out the carpet sweeper.

A nearby thrush suddenly starts to sing.
I wish this song was your voice, calling through the rain.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 18th. - 19th. 2019.