Sunday at six when they close both the gates A widowed pair, still sitting there Wonder if they`re late for church And it`s cold so they fasten their coats And cross the grass, they`re always last
Passing by the padlocked swings The roundabout still turning Ahead they see a small girl On her way home with a pram
Inside the archway The priest greets them with a courteous nod He`s close to God Looking back at days of four instead of two Years seem so few Heads bent in prayer For friends not there
Leaving twopence on the plate They hurry down the path and through the gate And wait to board the bus That ambles down the street
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