We met

under a shower

of bird notes.

Fifty years passed,

love’s moment

in a world in

servitude to time.

She was young;

I kissed with my eyes

closed and opened

them on her wrinkles.

‘Come,’ said death,

choosing her as his

partner for

the last dance. And she,

Who in life

had done everything

with a bird’s grace,

opened her bill now

for the shedding

of one sigh no

heavier than a feather.

 

RS Thomas

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