hair brushed to a glossy sheen
navy uniforms smell of fresh ironing
one hundred hands cradle the world
flickers from the candles
shadows on Victorian stones;
wax slowly dripping
our voices rise to this occasion
rehearsed over and over in
the hall, which I enjoy
as dreaded maths is canceled.
Outside the world is
plunged into blackness
wrapping around me like
a close friend, this time
of year is magical,
yet I don’t stop or think
about the pretty
red ribbon
winding round.
In three month’s time
we will be celebrating death.
Why does love demand this sacrifice?
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