Dec 29 [1940].
The Click of the Garden Gate.

I hear the click of the garden gate,

But it is not he.

He comes no more either early or late,

To his dinner or tea.

He is far away in an Air Force Camp,

Learning to fight.

(I wonder if his blankets are damp,

And if he sleeps well at night.)

Not twenty years when went away.

Just a boy.

He may never again come back to stay,

To delight and annoy.

Will what he has gained balance what he has lost?

He will change.

Will his growth to manhood improve him most?

Or make him change?

I open the casement into his room,

So tidy and neat.

And the sun shines in and chases the gloom,

And the wind blows sweet.

Ready for him when, early or late,

He comes back home to the sea.

I hear the click of the garden gate,

But it is not he.

(Perhaps it is Rene coming to tea!)