A wound that never heals

Love is the sweetest thing
What else on earth could ever bring
Such happiness to ev'rything
As Love's old story.

Love is the strangest thing
No song of birds upon the wing
Shall in our hearts more sweetly sing
Than Love's old story.

Whatever heart may desire
Whatever fate may send
This is the tale that never will tire.
This is the song without end.

Love is the greatest thing
The oldest yet, the latest thing
I only hope that fate may bring
Love's story to you.

This last week I've had the chance to reflect on love. I've had an alliterative weekend visitng friends with alarmingly similar names.

C&C Somerset met in later life and are blissfully happy. They live in a wonderful dog-filled home with a garden that keeps them busy most days. They visibly cherish the privilege of love.

C&C Cornwall look forward to their silver wedding this year. Retirement beckons with a home looking out over the Atlantic in a village that has become home. Half a lifetime and three daughters have brought them a familiarity but never losing respect. Tender moments pass between them like little private starbursts.

C&C Devon have been married for over thirty-five years. Life has dealt them a cruel blow. With three sons just grown up, they looked forward to a retirement of dog-walking and National Trusting with the occasional treat for big birthdays. Last Autumn, she was taken desperately ill suddenly and continues to have brutal treatment to keep the illness at bay. Suddenly, they are conscious of the need to blend practicality with loving moments. The freezer is well stocked and they have made sure that the words are not left unsaid.



My path is single with a dog to keep me company. My footprints, his pawprints. But still love.


Here is a wound that never will heal, I know,
Being wrought not of a dearness and a death,
But of a love turned ashes and the breath
Gone out of beauty; never again will grow
The grass on that scarred acre, though I sow
Young seed there yearly and the sky bequeath
Its friendly weathers down, far Underneath
Shall be such bitterness of an old woe.
That April should be shattered by a gust,
That August should be levelled by a rain,
I can endure, and that the lifted dust
Of man should settle to the earth again;
But that a dream can die, will be a thrust
Between my ribs forever of hot pain.