We met on the first working day of the week;
married, five years later, on a Saturday;
and sailed for Ireland on the Sunday.
This Monday marks fifty two years of mostly
wedded bliss; occasional toilsome woe;
loving; giving; hard work; grace – a pack of cards
without, for the most part, the jangling jokers.
Out of the grassy plains, along the Silk Road
from Samarkand, came the colours of
anarchy, of power and passion; came
the four corners of the world, its seasons,
its elements; came the months of the moon.
Partially obscured by damp, bronzed leaves,
there, one winter Sunday before we met,
discarded on a path of a public park
was the Queen of Hearts, blithe and propitious.