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Frances Cornford
I saw you sit waiting with your sewing on your knees,
Till a man should claim the comfort of your body
And your industry and presence for his own.
I saw you sit waiting with your sewing on your knees,
Till the child growing hidden in your body
Should become a living creature in the light.
I saw you sit waiting with your sewing on your knees,
Till your child who had ventured to the city
Should return to the shelter of his home.
I saw you sit waiting with your sewing on your knees
--Your unreturning son was in the city--
Till Death should come along the cobbled street.
I saw you sit waiting with your sewing on your knees.
Wine while I wait,
scarlet clothes like feathers
in the portmanteau.
She waited for him to meet
He never met
She waited for him to talk
He never spoke
She waited for him to text
He never did
She waited for him to love
He never cared
She got tired and walked away
He now waits .
He was a little boy; just turned two,
Walking at the park, with his mother in blue.
To everyone he saw, this is what he'd say,
"Hey! My daddy's comin' home today.
He's been at the war, fighting for us,
But now he's coming home in that army bus.
He promised he'd come today in his letter.
I used to miss him, but this will make it all better."
The people would look in the mother's green eyes,
They saw the pain and regret of the lies.
And they knew the truth, as it is for some,
That boy would be waiting for what would never come.
I await you.
People pass
and glance,
curious. I do not
mind; you may
arrive or you
may not. What I
have done, I have done.
Where my love waits
A hand has painted stars upon the vault
Which never change,
The trees have turned resplendent gold
But no leaves fall,
The moon hangs full in copper hues
And never wanes,
The night bears warming breezes
But no dawn.
There must be winter, and a sleep
Before we meet,
Till love permits the world to breathe again.
The last six months
should be the fastest.
It is still winter.
That time when there is yet nothing,
Her skills being at rest, synchronized
And sympathetic with soil's sleep --
Timid buds of lilac or jonquil still
Tucked within themselves -- she wonders
If she's even a subsistence woman, is
Mistaken in that as so much else, as when
Even deep snow cannot efface what
Winter erases when it is nearest spring.
Her hands stretch to packaged seeds;
Enter into bargains with their quietude.
Now? Now? Now? Now? she asks them,
Though she knows they will not move.
Here by a cold window she spreads
Envelopes on her table: peas, beets.
Radishes will be first, nearest the house.
When you have
been journeying,
life in the house
slows to a crawl.
I go to the window.
I go to the window
again.
The flashes of azaleas red and white
Die and burn and die again :
The sun and clouds part and meet and part again.
Among the clouds of azaleas white and red
I see one flash never die :
O the idyl beauty of her face!
Hey for my heart's delight !
Is she not waiting for my love and song
Among the clouds of azaleas red and white ?
With tears and a faithful heart and brave mirth,
Once on a time you watched to welcome me.
Waiting and weariness and agony
Until the last were what you thought me worth.
But wearier than the months that wait for birth
Are those that wait for death— How shall I be
Still while you are so still? How shall I see
Unbrokenhearted your slow steps from earth?
So the white watchers gather near to hark
The soul's approach, the heralding of the horn,
And so they strain and listen for the tread
Of the free soul retreating down the dark —
Mothers who wait for children to be born,
Children who wait for mothers to be dead.
Supper comes at five o'clock,
At six, the evening star,
My lover comes at eight o'clock--
But eight o'clock is far.
How could I bear my pain all day
Unless I watched to see
The clock-hands laboring to bring
Eight o'clock to me.