Curtains

A pair (is that the write word?) of garish, gold curtains,

Which we certainly wanted to take down, replace,

once we'd settled in to our 1960s semi, are still hanging there,

strange aliens in our space.

We painted the walls, put up shelves,

pulled up carpets and polished parquet flooring, like we were

mooring a boat, bouying ourselves up and keeping afloat.

We did the deed and got gold rings,

We ate meals and watched box sets and seasons and things.

We had two beautiful girls, both easy births 

into this world. On sofas we curled.

Blew out moons and unwrapped days

Wrote poems in the blues and greys.

You bought some material that my mum was going to

block print, before they discovered the tumour

and that got put off, I think. We did a stint of journeys.

There was a glimmer and a glint. Death was deferred.

But we are now both tired and the girls are both asleep,

you go up to bed and I sit listening to records

down beneath.

Sometimes I feel we missed the same bus

and I wonder if these are, after all,

 the curtains for us. They sit and seem to say:

"Let us be drawn again to see another day."

Revealing the turning trees that stand outside

and seem a hem of a dress of a timeless bride,

All the world's a stage we are going through, I guess,

I stare at the gold, and ignore the mess. The record's finished

the needle kicks back like a heart beat blest, to the start,

and I will go up soon, to you,

and rest against your hearth; your heart.