THE RETURN
The tall winter trees, reduced now to corpses,
cast their shadows towards the old door
where flaking green paint exposes the grain.
I place my cold hand on the patinated handle.
No lock is engaged and I push it down gently;
the door slowly opens - I enter her world.
Her mobile charger glows red on stand-by.
The low coffee table is ring- marked and cluttered
with magazines, and pencils and out-of-date papers,
and an old tea-stained mug that’s seen better days.
The rug in the kitchen is faded and threadbare,
the tap keeps on dripping and the kettle’s still warm.
Cutlery, plates, pots, pans and dishes
are piled on the worktop – abandoned till morning.
In the bathroom the tiles are dripping with steam
and haloes of bubbles encircle the soap.
A damp fluffy towel lies inert on the floor
where she stepped from the shower and allowed it to fall.
Her perfume greets me on entering her bedroom,
her body recumbent beneath crisp cotton sheets,
and the moonlight which peeps through long lacey curtains
highlights her silken diaphanous form.
I walk to the bed and lie down beside her,
she stirs in her sleep and she whispers my name.
Michael Edwards© October 2015