Spring rain, slanting across the fields,
follows him through the door.
Sack over his head.
He stamps on the flagged floor,
Hoping for a welcome.
No sound in the house but the tap dripping.
Feet bruised and aching in the hard farm boots.
He sits, staring at the cluttered kitchen.
Wanting a meal, a word,
A sign of recognition.
He doesn’t know it yet,
But the dog has eaten his dinner.