Poetry Archives

The hoar-frost crumbles in the sun,
  The crisping steam of a train
Melts in the air, while two black birds
  Sweep past the window again.

Along the vacant road, a red
  Bicycle approaches; I wait
In a thaw of anxiety, for the boy
  To leap down at our gate.

He has passed us by; but is it
  Relief that starts in my breast?
Or a deeper bruise of knowing that still
  She has no rest.