I passionately long to stand, hands in the bowl

Washing up, looking out onto our sunlit garden.

I long to see a cat move sleepily and pause

To lick itself. I desperately long to climb

The stairs you stripped, go into our dusty room,

Sit at my old wooden desk. Mostly I long

To have you there, or promise of your return

With my not having to leave, content to wait,

And see the girls, our loves, and put the hoover round

Before God I say, or pray,

Let not this sweet scenario change

Nor keep me long from it. 

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