Yevgeny Yevtushenko (1933–2017)

I haven't read Yevtushenko since I was a school kid, but refreshed my memory the other day courtesy of the internet. I rather liked this:

Waiting

My love will come
will fling open her arms and fold me in them,
will understand my fears, observe my changes.
In from the pouring dark, from the pitch night
without stopping to bang the taxi door
she’ll run upstairs through the decaying porch
burning with love and love’s happiness,
she’ll run dripping upstairs, she won’t knock,
will take my head in her hands,
and when she drops her overcoat on a chair,
it will slide to the floor in a blue heap.
… (mere)