Poem – Waiting

My love will come
will fling open her arms and fold me in them,
will understand my fears, observe my changes.
In from the pouring dark, from the pitch night
without stopping to bang the taxi door
she’ll run upstairs through the decaying porch
burning with love and love’s happiness,
she’ll run dripping upstairs, she won’t knock,
will take my head in her hands,
and when she drops her overcoat on a chair,
it will slide to the floor in a blue heap.

Waiting – Richard Millar 

Every day, 

at exactly 


the boy 


the bike 

comes bye- 

He never stops… 

Just pedals past- 

Mudguards rattling. 

The boy 


the bike. 

Does he see me? 

Should I wave? 

If I lift my hand, 

Will he see 

I’m blind?