So, how have we changed
in not quite a dozen St Valentine’s days?
Leafing back through them,
my previous versions
are a hundred different people;
I barely recognise who I was last summer,
let alone when we got engaged.
Basically, how haven’t we changed?
Staring through the mirror,
Peeling the glass back,
I just don’t know
that third of a man
who, so I’m told, shares my
deoxyribonucleic acid, or whatever.
I, of all people,
could not have known, yet, honestly,
somehow I did know:
that the girl in the chapel
was the one who could and who would
upgrade my contingency. In other words,
Love for you is the one well stuck pin
that I have in common with him,
that blue-eyed adolescent who I was when
my one saving grace
was that God’s saving grace had,
despite, you know, me,
brought me to you.
You, of all people,
should have known better, frankly,
than to fall for the antics of
a teenage halfwit who wasn’t even doing a proper degree.
How the hell I did it I still don’t know
But tricking you into marrying me
is the only thing I look back on with pride.
And God knows I’ve been a pretty useless husband.
But God knows I’ve tried to get better.
If I have, and I think I have, I’ve you to thank, you
and, yes, the little ones.
You hold my head up, you and the little ones,
and, seeing now that there is a road,
I’ve some chance of keeping my eyes on it.
Stuff comes and goes; trees fall, habits change,
and even these hands and eyes,
mine that know yours and yours that know mine
will go on their way, in time, but
love, our love, our true, good and beautiful love,
our love that is not only our love,
is now, and ever shall be, world without end.
by James Walton, February 13th 2017