Your home
seals behind me as I leave it 
like a flower at evening
your heart
may do that, too; 
sure I am the last thing on
your mind.
Impenetrable, dwells not upon me, but
your love
I hope to feel forever.

From the
back seat, I hear you whisper a name,
and hope, still,
that it was
mine.

My home
is where my feet are when I say it,
my heart
is quietly engaged in feeding
my mind
some or other story that will make it quiet,
my love
is with you, still.

©  Copyright, 2000; Malcolm Beckett