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This poem is inspired by my grandmother's tale of love along with the loss that she experienced on the demise of my grandfather.

Waiting at the doorstep 

of a house that could be ours.

A solace from monotony,

a home decorated with flowers.

A pot simmering on the stove,

the kettle on the boil.

A hot cup of tea and the papers

- Comfort at the end of toil.

And in the antiphony we could rest,

Comfortably on our couch,

Feeding biscuits to a pet,

Thoughts flowing from our mouths.

The patter of small feet

could again reign supreme.

Introducing the innocence of childhood

and home made ice cream.

When we have been declined

into the vale of years

We will sit on our rose patio

and expel each other's fears.

My love will not erode

despite my ailing faculties.

We will read and walk and travel 

and exemplify domesticity.

Treacherous tears well up my eyes 

and trickle to the ground.

I am waiting at our doorstep

but you are nowhere to be found.