Boomslang Poetry

Flying Visit Spring 1944

May in the back yard, pounding the dolly, up
and down, twist and around, churning the clothes
and the suds in the tub, pausing to tut at the peeling
paint on the back gate, worse now in the spring sun.
Surveying her dressing table for the unopened indulgence,
a carousel of nail varnish. Next, a treasure more precious
than this, a postcard, a vast cascade, mist and the blue tinted sky.
At its greeting, she smiles as wide as Niagara.

Back to her task, agitating, dissolving the dirt, deaf
to the squeak of the hinge, amazed at the sight of him,
there now, huge in a Great coat, blocking out the sun,
kit bag shouldered and moustachioed, grinning.
Here now, the kissing of two long winters
and his craving her warmth before that last push.