Waiting

There is a pot of coffee
On the table under the tree
You planted as a boy,
The cream is in the bluebell jug
Dimpled with condensation,
Sugar cubes lie in a pale yellow bowl
I bought one winter evening
After you had gone,
Bone china cups sit in their saucers
Under a lace cover we found on a holiday
Spent on slow flowing rivers
Wandering through rich meadows bedecked
In late summer colours,
I shall wait for you
Until the leaves fall
And winter calls me indoors,
You need not phone nor send a message
For I am waiting
Knowing you will come
To drink coffee with me
Under the tree now grown tall.