Waiting for Rain.
Most days on my way to the café or to the grocer,
I walk past an old man who sits in the garden, on
a sofa that has lost its place in the living room where
It once had been an object of pride for a newlywed
couple and placed under an oak that was blind to
such details. I often stop and talk to him, he can’t
remember me from one day to the next and tells me
about his parents it’s like they are still alive, and how
wonderful life was in the old days.
He isn’t here today, the mantle he wrapped around
his bony shoulders when there was a chill in the air,
is flung carelessly on the sofa, a zephyr whispers he
will not be back.“ Will I be that old? I ask the fading
sun. I sit on an old sofa on the terrace, scan the sky
a blanker wrapped around my shoulders to keep out
the chill, here in the vale where I was born and my
parents lived before me. We wait for September rain
and remember how wonderful life used to be.