Yours are moments of the now,
Sights of a golden sun,
Songbird shadows flashing through
A May that’s just begun,
Sewn with summer’s promise to
A splendour of your own.
Mine are memories of the hour,
Of earth and mist as one,
Shadows borne on your tomorrow,
Both forged in ash and bone.
Your sunbird summer will be ours
When at last our dance is done.
In my hometown church in Newark-on-Trent, the church has hidden in one of its sepulchres an image of a danse macabre. The image, as above, is of a rich young prince, confronted with a contrary, meagre image of Death. It is given an epithet very popular in Middle Age artwork of this genre: As I am today, so you will be tomorrow.