Already Dies.
After the service
at the church
on Sunday morning
in 1962
she and you
leaving the choir
and she taking your hand
in hers and staying behind
until the others had gone
she kisses your lips
and the echo
of the organ’s drone
silent and the smell
of her mother’s
borrowed scent
lingering in the air
and knowing her sister
would be waiting outside
prepared to tell her mother
if she caught glimpse of kiss
or any hold of hands
and half deaf organist
Mr Lundon stomping about
in the organ loft above
and all you wanted
was to stay there
with the kiss and love
and her lips and the look
in her big blue eyes
not knowing then
that all things
however good
move on and something
inside her already dies.
poem by Terry Collett
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