| Sunday at six when they close both the gates
|
| A widowed pair
|
| Still sitting there
|
| Wonder if they’re late for church
|
| And it’s cold, so they fasten up their coates
|
| And cross the grass, they’re always last
|
| Passing by the padlocked swings
|
| The roundabout still turning
|
| Ahead they see a small girl
|
| On her way home with a pram
|
| Inside the archway
|
| The priest greets them with a courteous nod
|
| He’s close to god
|
| Looking back at days of four instead of two
|
| Years seem so few (four instead of two)
|
| Heads bent in prayer
|
| For friends not there
|
| Leaving twopence on the plate
|
| They hurry down the path and through the gate
|
| And wait to board the bus
|
| That ambles down the street |