That day that he had come home early,

Oh! He could not stand to think of it!

His eyes grew hot at the memory.

In the morning the thunder is still there,

rolling around the distant sky.

A dull, clammy day of downpours, 

the lake a soft sheen of grey like a heron's back.

"Are you coming home?

You're not coming home, are you? 

I just need to know."

That day on the beach it seemed the sea knew her heart.
All day she walked, pacing in seething rage at her own weakness.

All of a sudden she had a longing to see him.

She knew then that she would go home in the end.

The garden breathes the faint memory of long-ago children.

It is filled with such ghosts and echoes of other lives.

A lingering sensation of hidden joy.

Sometimes she felt there was no going back.

What did he miss the most?

It was the murmur of her voice in another room,

the quiet hum in the kitchen,

the clink of another knife on a plate at the table.

And in the evening, 

her footstep on the boards outside their bedroom door.

A sunny corner of scented flowers, creeping green.
Each day, when he returned,
late blooming roses filled the evening air with perfume
which greets him like a friendly, melancholy ghost.

From his chair he could see, framed by the trees,
a piece of the sea.
It seemed to float, stars of light
suspended on dancing threads,
as though played by some unseen hand.