Anxiety

 The hoar-frost crumbles in the sun, 
The crisping steam of a train 
Melts in the air, while two black birds 
Sweep past the window again.
 

Along the vacant road, a red
Bicycle approaches; I wait 
In a thaw of anxiety, for the boy 
To leap down at our gate.
 

He has passed us by; but is it 
Relief that starts in my breast?
Or a deeper bruise of knowing that still 
She has no rest.

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