WAITING IN THE DUSK

by Lindsay Preston

strangers rent our house

livingroom guarded by

risen Christ in a wall rug

where we soaked lemon cream crackers,

watched the dusk crawl

across the harbour to

dim us

and you kept on knitting mittens

moonlight white on your wrinkled face,

you seemed already departed

me having tea with your ghost

this I remembered the morning

I heard that

thump

I called your name

again, again;

you never answered

and I never finished scraping

the burn from your toast

Some cloudless evening when

hills have swallowed the sun

I shall return to the house,

sit in our livingroom with strangers

me and Christ

waiting in the dusk for the moon

and your ghost to come knitting