Sunday at six when they close both the gates
  a widowed pair,
  still sitting there,
  Wonder if they're late for church
  and it's cold, so they fasten their coats
  and cross the grass, they're always last.
    Passing by the padlocked swings,
  the roundabout still turning,
  ahead they see a small girl
  on her way home with a pram.
    Inside the archway,
  the priest greets them with a courteous nod.
  He's close to God.
  Looking back at days of four instead of two.
  Years seem so few (four instead of two).
  Heads bent in prayer
  for friends not there.
    Leaving twopence on the plate,
  they hurry down the path and through the gate
  and wait to board the bus
  that ambles down the street.