She waited to glimpse her newborn’s eye slits,
With their hint of deep water inside
And the shadow of a whale just about to breech.
Then she waited for that son to come home, with the car.
She waited for her husband to phone.
She waited home alone.
She waits now for sales and for Christmas,
And for the bus to come.
She waits in the kitchen for the jug to boil,
She waits for the radio news to finish
Before she can check in the garden
For the first spring bulbs.
She waits contented, and in wonder
As, outside, her grandson digs another hole
And buries all his cars.
‘Lunch?” she calls for the fifth time.
A wrinkled omelette, brown-tinged apple boats.
An oily sheen on the juice.
“Lunch, right here! ” he yells, pointing to the hole.
She smiles. She is used to waiting.
Waiting is like looking through a jewellery box,
Letting the tumble of glitter and shine
Fall from her fingers, cascading forever
While she decides what to wear.