(For Dónall) Arrival
You're waiting
under the Arrivals board
in your flying black mac
(or magician's gown...
it's an academic distinction...)
your silver coils of curls
flowing from your worried frown.
And when the train at last
rocks and rolls me up to Platform Ten,
I'm running then, and running fast,
upstream of tired faces in grey suits
and I'm colliding with your warmth,
meeting your soft mouth
with my own eager kiss
and knowing that all day
we both have longed for this.
poem by Janice Windle
Added by Poetry Lover
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