In the sweetly oaked shadows
beneath the silvered wooden lych,
a fool awaits his sweetheart, solemnly
he holds a daisy chain
but with eyes closed tight
thinks only of the sweet pea flower.
As next year’s ghosts, scurry past
to say their prayers this St Mark’s Eve,
plump raindrops black the gravel schist,
they play a hapless sombre tune
to mourn an absent bride, while
impassive waits the fool.
*
© Graham Sherwood 2008 rev 2019
grahamrichardsherwood.co.uk 