When the Cows Come Home

[BobBradshaw]

V3:

When the Cows Come Home

When the cows come home,
their udders swinging like heavy buckets

our flowering plum tree
will be tattered, her back bent

like a bride who's waited
long after the church emptied

and sits slouched forward
on a hard pew, her face

in her hands.
When the cows finally come home,

I will recall when romance
hung in the air between us

--a moment that could have seen
violin bows leap

like flying fish,
soaring like my heart--

but somehow not seized.
Regret is a fog that has settled

in my heart, and will
not disperse.

When the cows finally come home
I will still be standing

at my window, gazing out
as if it were a porthole

of a sunken sub, my future
a bleak expanse,

sands stretching
into the darkness

beyond the sub’s
flickering
lights.




V2:

When the Cows Come Home

When the cows come home,
their udders swinging like heavy buckets

the Chinese Flame will no longer
be feverishly flowering,

its fiery branches
we loved bare;

the weather vane
will have lost all sense

of direction, as I have.
My phone which has waited

for your call will be as silent
as tonight’s heartless moon.

Our flowering plum tree
will be tattered, her back bent

like a bride who's waited
long after the church emptied

and sits slouched forward
on a hard pew, her face

in her hands.
When the cows finally come home,

I will recall when romance
hung in the air between us

--a moment that could have seen
violin bows leap

like flying fish,
soaring like my heart--

but somehow not seized.
Regret is a fog that has settled

in my heart, and will
not disperse.

When the cows finally come home
I will still be standing

at my window, gazing out
as if it were a porthole

of a sunken sub, my future
a bleak expanse,

sands stretching
into the darkness

beyond the sub’s
flickering
lights.


V1:
When the Cows Come Home

When the cows come home,
their udders swinging like heavy buckets

the Chinese Flame will no longer
be feverishly flowering,

its fiery branches
we loved bare;

the weather vane
will have lost all sense

of direction, as I have,
and the bright flares of tulips

will have long vanished.
My phone which has waited

for your call will be
as silent as that blonde moon.

Our flowering plum tree
will be tattered, her back bent

like a bride who's waited
long after the church emptied

and sits slouched forward
on a hard pew, her face

in her hands.
When the cows finally come home,

I will recall when romance
hung in the air between us

--a moment that could have seen
violin bows leap

like flying fish,
soaring like my heart--

but somehow not seized.
Regret is a fog that has settled

in my heart, and will
not disperse.

When the cows finally come home
I will still be standing

at my window, gazing out
as if it were a porthole

of a sunken sub, my future
a bleak expanse,

sands stretching
into the darkness

beyond the sub’s
flickering
lights.

[Kenneth2816]

Bob, have we seen parts of this? I recall some lines
.

[BobBradshaw]

It was posted at W a short while ago, and 3 years ago some of the lines were used in a poem that didn't work out that well.

[Kenneth2816]

I think you have too much going on with cows, flying fish and submarines. You may have more than one poem here

[BobBradshaw]

Thx, Ken, for the comment.

[BobBradshaw]

Revised, deleting a couple lines... & tweaking another

[BobBradshaw]

I have cut more lines...