Missing (Poetry)

It was here he took his evening stroll
along the drive, across the village square,
at times I think I hear his footsteps still -
that crunch of gravel sharp upon the air
and regular as Chapel bell's slow toll
calling its small flock down from the hill.

I imagine that the gate latch softly clicks,
tall flowers sway allowing him to pass,
then shoes scrape on the doormat once, then twice,
before the knock, his shadow on the glass
fading while his favourite clock still ticks
while minutes creep as furtively as mice.

A year has gone, it's easy to lose track,
new slippers gather dust beside his chair,
hopeful he'll return - there's been no sign -
the search revealed neither hide nor hair -
but I often hear his footsteps coming back
on quiet evenings, just about this time.