Waiting

My love will come

will fling open her arms and fold me in them,

will understand my fears, observe my changes.

In from the pouring dark, from the pitch night

without stopping to bang the taxi door

she’ll run upstairs through the decaying porch

burning with love and love’s happiness,

she’ll run dripping upstairs, she won’t knock,

will take my head in her hands,

and when she drops her overcoat on a chair,

it will slide to the floor in a blue heap.