a fiftieth poem...'still nothing'

This is an interlude,

I remember thinking -

The beginning of love.

I’d stand at the kitchen window,

And watch, and wait.

A flock of birds would rise

From a nearby coppice,

The telephone would ring,

Or the kettle would sing,

And only then did I return

To the business of living,

Try again to ignore

The not-knowing.

‘Stop talking to yourself!’,

I would say,

‘She will be back..

..any day’,

But before long

It was summer’s end,

Siren songs,

The first chill winds

Of a new fall.

Dusk is now mid-afternoon,

Long. thin shadows

Up the garden wall,

Still nothing from you.