Front Door

It’s 7.49 am.
You’ve just gone out the front door.
You pulled it hard, to catch the lock.
It didn’t catch, so I walked towards it
To give it a push.
As I reached out to push
You reached back, to give it a pull.
I saw you through the stained glass,
Reaching back, even as you were leaving.
You pulled it shut
Before I got there. I smiled.
You were gone.

I’ll always be reaching for the door
That you’ve gone through.
I know you have to leave,
But I’ll always be hoping you might return.
I’ll always be looking for you,
As the years stain and blur.
One day you won’t stop and turn.
You won’t reach back.
But I’ll always be at the door
Just in case.
It’s 7.59.

Martin Wroe

A poem I wrote about love and the inevitability of departures. I wrote it one morning when our eldest child was heading out of the house to school and I was reminded about it this weekend, at his wedding.

‘Trying to get to heaven before they close the door.’