The wife who went astray is standing at my door
standing in the rain
hair dishevelled
hanging down
hair that veiled her eyes
Those down cast eyes
dripping water on my carpet “I’m sorry”, she said, “I’m back!”, she said, then, shivering, fell to the floor, just inside my door
I tucked and rolled her neatly out that door, out onto the front porch, then closed and locked that door.
Oh, would I? Could I?
Or would I turn, and walk back in to sit by my fireside, and poke about to excite the flames from the dying embers there?
Moaning there she’d lay
Maybe I wouldn’t care…
I’d pull up a chair, right then and there watch her lay upon the cold hard marble floor
Or maybe I’d get down there beside her, just lying beside her, and I’d brush her hair from her eyes and listen to her mutter and moan, and to her softly say, “It’s ok, I’m here”
More on that…
Running Down Vimy 