Sunday at six when they close both the gates
a windowed 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
