Sunday at six when they close
both the gates
a widowed pair,
still sitting there,
Wonder if they're late for church
and its cold
so they fasten their coats
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.
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.
