Memory Of Telephone Calls Poem by Terence George Craddock (Spectral Images and Images Of Light)

Are you waiting
for me to call.
All you will hear
is telephone silence.

Telephone silence
is a sound
I always hear.
I fear.
A telephone
is a hated thing
when it
does not ring.

And yet
so often
it has been
our only means
of communication.
The only means
by way of which
I could
communicate
with you.

Your letters
and cards
have given me
past
pleasure and joy.
But also
the sharp
separation
of long
or final goodbyes.

We often
spoke on
the telephone
later cell phones
because we
could not
come to
each others houses.

We could not
cross the threshold
of each others
doorsteps.
We could not
warm ourselves
by the hearthside
of each others company.

And now
the long cold
of winter separation
is upon us.
And now
the long chill
of bitter separation
has come again.


Copyright © Terence George Craddock