Telegram

Her stockings loose, Mrs Smith

scrapes and drags dusty seams toward

the post office where a message

waits for her upon the counter top.

Through the door - a liquorice, mint

and paper scent - the bell clink muted.

Mr Potter, lifts the yellow sheet,

intent, he gazes at his customer. She

takes it lightly from his hand

and reads in silent prayer. Mrs Smith,

back up the sandy lane pads toward

her scrubbed white cottage - where no one waits.

From the pine board above the kettle,

she takes the teapot and brews a cup,

sits and gazes through the open doorway.