Until death lost its hold on her she played her cards close to the chest and told
No one of her need to scold strangers on the boulevards, neither did she let me hold
Sway in the manner of the old demons who, dressed as bards, chanted grim couplets that told
The story backwards so that, bold, she conveyed her kind regards before she knew that I would hold
Hope like the echo of a bell tolled, whisper of song sung; afterwards, growing shy, she wept as I told
That fortunes, rather than in gold, are measured in remembered words
that mark us waking, when we hold each other, before God is told.
– Dave Read