The Door
       

I sit in the garden
taking the late sun
as it sinks and slides
between the side
of the house
and the hawthorn.
Trailing the bench
across the lawn
to catch a final
finger of warmth,
a golden stretch
comes to rest
on a patch
of grass at my feet
— like a door.
A door in which
I wait for your
shadow to darken;
the door, which is
always left open.

(27th March 2010)

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Copyright © 2011 Adam Wyeth All rights reserved
from Silent Music
Salmon Poetry
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission