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