Relics

Just like the seasons as they are reversed

Our love runs backwards and gathers in the hearse.

The chapel, the steeple, elusive and sad

The cortege, procession, tear-torn and mad.

Come March we had winter for December’s spring

In August monsoons to drown our wedding rings.

October days grew long, money running out

Stymied by fortune, we spat to slake a drought.

By bearers of palls, impostor I stand

Hefting a load I cannot wait to land.

In rumination, in wonder, in mystery, in awe

I turn my gaze from you to the flowers on the floor.

Like the seasons running backward

I moved against the tide,

I said that I would be there

Little knowing that I lied.

The copyright of this post belongs to Ben Hargreaves