Sat in the pews
we pick up our cues religiously -
respectfully.
Gravity's noose -
so strange and numb.
You were country air,
garden gloves and secateurs,
the salt breezes of Sligo.
Not the type for slow-diffusal:
no shadow drift from life
but swiftness of light.
"Lilies for Lily" -
they crackle an outbreath
of plastic.
Beneath this crust
the sealed caves echo:
loss of warmth,
memory - a cold,
clogged sponge.
Under her weight
his tears drip
dense necklace pearls.
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