Sunday at six when they close both the gates A widowed pair, Still sitting there, Wonder if theyre late for church And its cold, so they fasten their coats And cross the grass, theyre 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. Hes close to god. Looking back at days of four instead of two. Years seem so few (four instead of two). Heads bent in prayer For friends not there.
Leaving twopence on the plate, They hurry down the path and through the gate And wait to board the bus That ambles down the street.