She wears a short sleeve polo shirt, yet I am sure it is December
The wooden seats, and concrete tubs are swept around diligently
The last life of autumn’s falling are cleared from the path
One earring is apparently missing; and so the search begins
A logic is generated that says they ought to be together
I sit quietly, listen to the aeroplanes, in the busy Saturday sky
Photographs of the Queen, and The Queen mother, hang in the conservatory
There is no sign of Prince Philip; the church was bombed in the war
Christians, hotel guests and those seeking peace now populate this retreat
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