They Had a Ball
They would seem to sit side by side,
both were right; each was left.
She was wrapped in her ragged cardigan,
would gaze beyond her present
into the echo of her past.
Each wrinkle told a story.
Twilight years were with them and they knew
each would continue to be alone.
His memories would flood now
but then fade, as he sighed;
she would sigh as she remembered
his ragged-trousered bearing.
Apart now, but memories keep them together.
She and he gaze back, each wishing for rest.
Memories keep them silent,
memories of husband and wife,
memories of youth as they think
of that ball at his side, once shared
but no longer with her.
The ball is a globe of memory,
once kicked, gazed upon by both,
but now by him with keen eyes;
she with her mind.
Life was a ball, now an empty hall;
it has but an echo.
Each is alive - but who will be the first to depart?
(March/April 2026)
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