Sunday at six when they close

 both the gates

 a widowed pair,

 still sitting there,

 Wonder if they're late for church

 and its 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.