Candlelight. Always candlelight
We smile at the delicate eccentricity of our Friday folly
Our working week worked, still you court reflections.
And still, for the sake of your smile, I embroider the truth
Crafting my daytime drudgery into a compelling drama.
Comedic, tragic and teasing, I know that you know what is real
Yet in your eyes your enchantment is authentic and alluring
Lovingly and knowingly you liberate my penchant for amusing anecdotes
And in doing so my employ parallels the insipid and the inspiring
Strange bedfellows and, as I recall, such was once upon a time said of us.
Wine. Always a fine wine
We grin at the devilish extravagance we could ill-afford
Our working class veneer ajar to a shard of misplaced and, so you thought,
Secret snobbery, though I name dropp wines as others name dropp exotic holidays
For this is our weekly escape, our humble haven, nurtured with quirky formality,
We know our roles. I put down my case and loosen my tie to invite your culinary
Majesty through my veins as I place a kiss on your right cheek, the same cheek that you always offer. This is, I ponder, what you perceive to be your ‘Best Side’ and I smile as I see only two sides to your loveliness, your inside and your outside. I turn
t’wards the stairs and say, as I always say, “Be with you in a minute my lovely”
Silver. Always a breath on the silver.
We laugh at my Aladdin moment as I polish the cutlery in the same timid and tender way I would dress our children’s playground grazes as if I too was feeling their pain. The table plan, my table plan, fastidious and engraved to memory, is arranged with orderly angles and sterile lines. Did I ever ask you if it pleased you? Because, only now, can I concede the absence of any panache for the eye-catching that you could have so graciously and so effortlessly sprinkled upon the settings. The likelihood is I never did ask and, as is my want, I will have assumed that such precision and attention to detail would have impressed you. And as I see you tonight, in this light, so ageless and timeless I feel an overwhelming urge to say sorry.
Napkins. Always napkins.
We marvel at our blessings ‘neath willowy dancing flame. Our memoirs modest,
Our pleasures treasured and tonight, as ever, Friday ours.
Our children flown and, with lives of their own, we turn to pictures. Leafing through albums I carefully and, unsurprisingly, catalogued, I wonder. Did you ever feel the urge to blithely launch our lifetime memories skyward and gaily sit amongst their random landings? But sweet flower that you are you suffer and indulge my symmetry.
And now we are weary and I have talked too much so sleep safe my lovely for so shall I.
On this the fortieth anniversary of our marriage
And the fourth anniversary of your death.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.