On Sunday mornings Jack goes down
The river with his bag,
A long trek from the little town
For feet that scuff and drag.
Old Jack is nearly ninety one,
His face as rough as bark,
His rheumy squint shuts out the sun,
His love lives in the dark.
And round the river’s final bend
Where sweet meets salty wave,
He kneels in she-oak bush to tend
His Martha’s simple grave.
He empties out his bag of flowers,
Puts daisies near the cross,
And settles by his love for hours,
Rich in what some call loss.
