For Margaret McMahon

He will come when the grasses
have given up their lights
and hogweeds darken against the sky.

He will come when the bats are plying
the arch of the copse
with their black, sporadic flight.

He will come when the woodbine
breathes its unbearable
sweetness adrift on the night

and long down the lane by the close
where the hedge-shadows drown
he will listen and wait.

He will fetch me home to the last barred gate
in the speechless dusk
as if it were not too late, too late.