“My love, why did you burn our photographs, in the inglenook fire?”
“It was nothing, my love,
mere petulance,
Come, fill me with desire.”
“But, they were unique?
Did you not think that such a thing would hurt?”
“Come, do not be sentimental my love,
They were just images,
Neither gold dust nor dirt.”
He sat and said nothing,
Watching sunset over the churchyard scene
Where names on stones
Barley visible,
Try so hard to be seen.
