Poetry - Week Two

You may note that we have changed the rules a bit. We are doing a theme a week for the rest of the month.


Behind the Door

At ten o'clock the postman calls,
five days a week.
With breakfast done, three hours ago
and lunch three hours away,
she waits.

She hears him first, three houses up,
the squeaky gate,
the measured footsteps, rat-a-tat.
He pauses, writes a card.
She waits.

He passes by next door but one,
and then next door.
She holds her breath, the footsteps stop,
he riffles through his bag.
She waits.

And then the sound she's waiting for.
The gate-latch clicks.
She counts the steps to her front door
and, listening for her post,
she waits.

A creak, a letter sliding through
and lying there.
Receding steps, the closing gate.
The hope, the dreadful hope.
She waits.

Perhaps a postcard from her son,
so far away.
Maybe a letter asking her
to come for tea with friends.
She waits.

The longer that she leaves it there,
behind the door,
the more the pleasure she can take
from living in her dreams.
She waits.