by Sarah Wardle
Each summer bought them out again,
like gulls along the beach,
to gaze on the horizon
at a future out of reach,
or watch the pleasure boat board
from an in memoriam bench,
along with the holiday horde
and its salt'n'vinegar stench.
Winter would keep them in,
though on a brighter day
they'd drive out for a spin,
or have grandchildren to stay,
but this December afternoon
they sleep tight in their graves,
and Christmas lights are up so soon
beside the ceaseless waves.
The Captain and I are so near our Eastbourne moment now... but I was out with Kathy this morning trying to tell all who will listen that it was not meant to be like this, we were not meant to have such short lives, over before we almost know they have begun. And that a rescue is so close for all who will take hold of it.
We - Kathy and me - drove all over on return visits, but the only people we found at home were not interested in talking to us any more. However we can only try. Soon we will be trying to cover all our territory, giving everyone an invitation to the coming Memorial of Jesus' death.
The Captain was home for lunch and I made us veggie soup with the leeks - and we had the remains of the beef chile with baked potato and salad for our tea.