The hoar-frost crumbles in the sun, 
 The crisping steam of a train 
Melts in the air, while two black birds 
 Sweep past the window again. 
 
Along the vacant road, a red
 Bicycle approaches; I wait 
In a thaw of anxiety, for the boy 
 To leap down at our gate. 
 
He has passed us by; but is it 
 Relief that starts in my breast?
Or a deeper bruise of knowing that still 
 She has no rest.