Coupled beneath heavy blankets they dozed,
untroubled by weather; inspired, betroved.
After first, second, third, breakfast, they rose;
shadows in candlelight glow, unclothed.
The kissing of hallowed relics in Durham
is allowed, I’ve heard. As is the giving
of chips to crows. In the cenotaph garden
at Amble, the clocks are still, for the living.
Ticks all the boxes, kisses the children.
Burps their hot water bottles, like babies,
at breast; hums The Best of Whitney Houston.