Those sacramentals on the table,

Pickin’s for the grieving family,

Some unworn watches, car boot sale bargains,

The oil painting of home in Ireland from Uncle Jim,

A funny plate, from a holiday in Cornwall.

 

All sacramentals now,

To be spread amongst others,

Or saved for another such event,

30 years from now.

As his children set the dining room table again.

 

For another semi-colon in an eternal sentence.

 

Almost the same,

Leading to the same place,

One as invitational as the other.

The doors stay firmly closed,

Waiting only for awakening,

A key.

Or someone inside to invite you in.

 

The choice to discern or decide.

 

The path on this seashore seemed familiar,

The walk from the Welsh village contained all the characters from Undermilk Wood,

Yet, none came from their houses,

Making this our own set, and not surreal at it seemed.

 

Her hand firmly clasped in a grip of 37 years,

No mans land in marriage, yet as perfect as the first days,

Only better now because we know each other,

And that we didn’t make the right choice.

 

But rather God did.