fresh tracks into the distance
well past midnight
the streetlight afterimage reflected in pools of
unblemished rainwater
stirs with slow echoes of the night
stirs with the slow echoes of the summer

keepsakes she quickly squirrels away
in the tiny pocket sewn into
her deep blue dress
the tiny pocket where she has a
lock of his hair
a picture of the ship he sailed off to sea on
a note he left her telling her
that he would dream of her

now the keepsakes she puts away
are twigs from a tree
a peice of plastic from a beach
bits of things that her wandering mind
grasped upon with a smiling fancy
on a stormy night September 1932
his ship was lost with all hands

all these years she waits
all these years she keeps vigil by the shore
gathering strands of the world
driftwood of lives cast off like her own
set adrift without particular place to be
and she has been lost
in mind and body
waiting for him to return

fresh tracks into the night
well past midnight
the streetlights image reflected
changes slowly
to show a figure walking carefully up the lane
his steps trying to remember
where they had been once before

was he returning
was he just a shadow or dream
she held her breath in delight and in trepidation

in the first light of day
her empty home lay quiet