Soon we will have to gather the bed linen from outdoors,
Or it will be blown over on the old maid
Which stands on crooked feet, trembling in the wind.
We will collect it in our arms like airborne troops,
Clearing up their parachutes from the drop zone.
Then rendezvous indoors.
There, we will hold opposite ends of the sheets, stretch and fold them,
In a strange married ritual we have made ours.
Part tug-of-war, part line-dance.
As we do, I will imagine an eighteenth century dance on a country estate,
Ballroom dresses flowing like sails filling in the wind,
While gallant men fight the spume to join their wives.
When we meet in the middle that last time, we will kiss
And hold the sheet between us.
Like something sacred.
Knowing that, with each day, our love is folded more deeply
Into eachother’s hearts.
5th May 2017