Waiting, waiting always waiting will he ever come?
Each morning I’m standing by the door, in rain or sleet or sun.
Does he know how long I wait my patient's getting thin?
Is that a van I’m hearing hoping that it’s him.
Over the bridge and round the bend at last his van’s in sight.
Eagerly I step outside he slows my hopes are bright.
He then winds down his window an envelope I see.
With trembling hands I take it I’m excited as can be.
Then off he goes back up the road waving as he goes.
This letter that I’m holding from whom I’m sure he knows.
It is I gasp with watery eyes it’s taken far too long.
I noticed then the postmark the date it must be wrong.
This was posted a year ago this surely can’t be right.
I opened it began to read the words gave me a fright.
With disbelief at what she’d wrote expressing deep remorse.
She’d heard the news that broke her heart I’d been killed of course.
Standing as I did each day waiting for the van.
He didn’t see me on that day, who you say? The Postman.