I do not dream of a freedom for the morning
I plainly know of it, and it knows all.
Before the greying dawn fully evaporates,
there’s water here, and fruit from the tree,
the shadows interminable, as the falling years are leaves
swept back from some autumn memory.
And true that path will clear, bedecked by hedge and lawn,
and the sun then grows a brilliant white,
shining on the steps where I sit, to wait
as you come, with graceful tread, towards me.