ten thousand little deaths

in the tangled skein tween dark night and bright day

thou once marched the chapel aisle in a cloud of white

me heart pounding, in terror and wonder great,

knees a tremble at the sacrament's inward light

...

thou wert so shy, thy felt every parishioner's gaze

and gripping mine hands in thine, thou whisper'd,

holdest me a while, God’s priest forc'd to wait

for I lov'd thee more than that which sacred liturgy requir'd

...

and when thou smil’d, I wish'd to die then and there

for surely, aye would ne’er againe feel it thus

nor wish to judge any given moment to compare

but rather savour such joy and never want for less

...

even though such wondrous times were slow to return;

still, they came, the potency of each a renewal o' faith and hope

the births of our beautiful childes ne'er to spurn

and still later our grandchildes to rekindle thy mother's love

...

but the act of living soil'd former passion

and promise, like a millstone grinding grain

love rankled by words cutting like weapons

with fierce wroth, when harmony we fail'd to maintain

...

all the little jibes and churlish pugnacity

all the rolling of our eyes and heavy sighs

ten thousand little deaths a mutual calamity

loving feeling rubbed bare by unrepent'd lies

...

and yet, together we grew older still and ne’er retired

when in thine smile and the gleam in thy brown eyes

and unforced joy in thy laughter and unsullied humor,

or tender clasp of thy naked arms and sweet music of thy whisper'd sighs

...

still aye saw me youthful bride in the wine red of thy blush

and tast’d thee in the press of thine lips to mine

desireth still to hold thee tight in the night's hush

me hands with pleasure buried in thy thick and tangl'd mane

...

but even in the merry years ever aye fear'd losing thee

as we lay together in the midnight hour, my ears prick’d

for thy ragg'd breath for fear it would steal all hope from me

and with bitter tears wept aye when illness cruelly assay'd

...

remember'd aye of thee in my orisons when thou grew weaker still

God silently listening to my plaint but ne’er deign'd to fill

and aye with mortal sorrow begg’d o’ He to grant me

the strength o’ an hour to cling forever more to thee

...

from our first honey’d kiss to our last

me trembling lips pressed to thine cold and still

who am aye in this tangled skein o’ life

save a poor soul who lov’d and buried his wife?

….

Betwixt the wooing and the last breath passing thine lips

cleav’d aye to thee sometimes in embrace and others at war,

together one flesh to which the good book unfold

So how might I now still live when ha’ o’ me has fled?