Dry Stone Walls Poem by Sailing to windward

I stood, waiting,
looking through the glass darkly,
searching down that lane,
edged with dry stone walls:
walls that made me shiver,
as time ushered time, slowly.

On stormy nights, the old bell
at my cottage door would sound,
and I stood, restless and cold
as that old bell rang itself, ghostily.

On quiet nights,
sheep ambled on those walls:
The muffled clatter of loose stone
breaking my sleep,
sounding like thieves,
preparing to enter my cottage
from that Welsh mountain lane, below me.

I stood, waiting, and looking through the glass,
and as the light of day crept away,
(I don't recall the moment precisely) .
the window glass became mirror glass,
and I no longer saw love returned easily:
I saw only my reflection, looking back, patiently.