A Kind of Love

I can’t remember, though I’ve often tried,When first I realised that their lives had beenSmoothed off for me and my brothers.

Not that they were rough in any way,But for a start, they were great uncleAnd great aunt - a couple who were not

A couple united in a church inMarried bliss or misery -For they were only siblings.

No dearly beloved gatheredTo hear them swear undying loveBefore the face of a God

Who never quite seemed to return the loveOf the poor folk of the town when theySuffered in the rich man’s mill or his wars.

Alice was a lame old thing who alwaysWelcomed us with a drink of lemonadeFortified with a spoonful of glucose –

The reaction was enchanting in its way:The lemonade hissed and sparkled,Bubbling its way up the glass –

You had to drink it so quickBefore it erupted from the glassOnto the stone scullery floor.

Joe was a quiet, gentle, virgin soulWho devoted his life to Alice,A creaking gate who survived him -

In one thoughtless moment he lost fourFingers as the clatter of the looms,For once, were silenced by his agony.

How he winced when, in childhood,I turned away from him at the sightOf his industrial mutilation.

But Joe was, in spite of all, as contentA man as I have ever known, even thoughHis cup surely never runneth over.

He was always there for Alice,A lady lame from birth who leaned on him.If fortune ever did call, I doubt

He would have been able to grasp her.