The Wanted

Sometimes I can almost see, around our home,
like moths around a porch light at night,
the people who could have come between us,
the jagged outline of them.

Sometimes I sense them waiting, hanging
back in the shade - eager bed-fellows
watching for the cracks to enlarge.

Sometimes I see them lying like rose petals
scattered across a four-poster bed, inviting.

And sometimes, like tonight, by the gale
force wind, I can hear just one of them,
calling out from the edge of the sea,
in the dark, calling out
desperately for me.