You will have the road gate open, the front door ajar
the kettle boiling and a table set
by the window looking out at the sycamores –
and your loving heart lying in wait
for me coming up among the poplar trees.
You’ll know my breathing and my walk
and it will be a summer evening on those roads
lonely with leaves of thought.
We will be choked with the grief of things growing,
the silence of dark-green air
life too rich – the nettles, docks and thistles
all answering the prodigal’s prayer.
You will know I am coming though I send no word
for you were lover who could tell
a man’s thoughts – my thoughts – though I hid them –
through you I know Woman and did not fear her spell.