Afore the pious Easter church,
beneath its oak grey April lych,
a fool awaits his sweetheart there.
He solemn holds a daisy chain,
but eyes closed, shut,
thinks only of the sweet pea flower.
As next year’s ghosts scurry by,
to say a prayer this St Mark’s Eve,
plump raindrops wet the gravel schist.
They play a hapless sombre tune,
to cheer the bride that will not come.
Impassive stands the fool.
© Graham Sherwood
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