the comfort of a sixteen-century house.
life after war, health after disease
and plenty after famine.
death in bed as grandparents.
in the darkness, my bicycle gleams.
a small golden ribbon still flutters
on the back stays, reminder that once
what mattered most a radiant smile
from this one, who writes now,
bereaved of ribbons and dinners
and your soft touch in the night
parting late into the unknown.
city gusts buffet dead sentiment
streetlights force the eyes to see.
cobblestones clatter, voices rattle
discordant medley of saturday nights.
somewhere here you part into
pointless divertissement, satisfied
your best was done. comforted
by friends. yet ever the question.
the golden ribbon still flutters
with the wonder of unearned love.