Waiting while the boughs bend
and sway in the swell of the wind.
No sound but the soughing and sighing,
patter of flung raindrops.
Waiting for the train to wail its way
in wheel-turning journeying
across the river plain
as the dim light sinks lower
and all is the colour of drying kelp
and all is the patch of lane
swept by the bending and swaying
that I watch for the turning wheels
bringing you home.