Nine

Not the time the watershed starts,
Nor time children come home from parks.
It’s not the gifts, nor is it the news,
Or the star player, or time to amuse.
Not hell’s circles, nor friends of the ring,
Or simply six enjoying flipping.
It isn’t square threes, or the muses,
Or the ball with yellow stripes and bruises.
Neither is it the planets numbered right,
Nor all the innings, nor work’s green light.
And certainly isn’t the cat’s tail, or lives,
Or dressed to the full, or a saving stitch in time.

No. Ours is our trips round the sun,
And not complete, there’s more to come.
Ours is the joy that our promise endures,
And that my heart still finds itself in yours.
Ours is the three-stranded cord
When our marriage was entwined round the Lord,
And three strands now stranded three ways:
You and I, with each daughter’s name.
Ours are filled with choice, heavenly fruits,
Ours are like the time our fruits took to produce.
For ours are life, and love our bond,
And just one away from a new diamond.

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