The Rest Of the Story
We finished off our ice bound drinks,
The score board clock said ten to four,
The shadow of the poplar trees
Crossed the rope at the boundary.
Then someone hit the winning run.
"Magnificent but its not war,"
Hypatia said and rose to leave,
"Most holidays go on too long."
Her straw hat wore a wreath of poppies,
Her hair hung straight to her shoulder blades
We took the woodland path that winds
Between the 18th century graves
And reached the meadow at just the right moment.
Under the flapping tricoleur
Our popular, stone-clad commendatore
Had slipped his ring on the rabbit girl’s paw.
The rook in the surplice shook his hands
And blackbirds, starlings, robins and wrens
Flew up and enclosed bridegroom and bride
In a dodecahedron of beautiful wings.
"Well that was nice," Hypatia muttered,
Raking fingers through her grey hair.
"Cheer up," she added, then burst out laughing
Helplessly- as if she were
Back to being the teenager
I’d met- oh- forty years before,
Unmated, all her life ahead of her,
Out with the girls on a summer’s day.