4.

The garden in the ruined abbey brims

With lovers, the voices of Dane, Viking,

Tudor faint beyond the choir, choristers

Practising within the walls. The roses

Recall the dead airmen, the trees reaching

Over the stream. You used to play here

And still do. Windows of the night curtain

The pavement at nightfall, and I dreamt

That time reversed itself and we were going

Back, although nothing could be the same,

And I wondered whether second chances

Were lost causes. The sun falls on the walk

As if it were the moon, the laughter

Of children being what we were and might have been.