You walk across my window sill
and into curtains draped across the hill.
Nine times you’ve passed this way before,
I know because I’ve stood here more
listening to the shuffle-step of your feet
make even and odd prints on the street.
I sometimes whisper to my window pane:
“Ask her if she has a name”
It murmurs back in a voice that’s the same:
“I will -if you will- when she comes again”
You stand framed in my right eye’s nook
And also in my left when i dare to look.
Gran tells me “dust settles on a life that’s still
So run an errand to the cassava mill.
Bring me tasty tales of goings on,
Don’t mix up who has died or borne a son”
I often wonder what she would make of you;
The ‘goings on’ that dare not follow through.
Don’t know how many more times I’ll be by;
Gran fades. The news stream may dry