Tip-tap the mist
Sheds droplets
Wetting the streets
And the trees outside.
A cold wind blows
Hard, rocking trees and
Buildings to their bases.
An occasional car-horn
Blares through the night,
Calling out to its fellows
Across the dark distance.
Alone in the house,
I hear the squeaking of
Mice among the rafters
And the pitter-patter
Of tiny, busy feet.
A door creaks somewhere,
Moved by the wind.
Amidst all this,
I listen, rapt,
For the sound
Of your footsteps
Walking across the garden
And in at the door. Then
Mounting the stairs
And into the room
Where I sit, waiting,
Finally coming to a halt
Right behind me.
