When I am at Mary’s
    We sometimes eat
          chocolate cake
               in the morning.

Talking over coffee
     Brimful of spun milk.
          Warm comfort.

When I am at Mary’s
     We sometimes feast
          on salmon, or apple cake.
               Or books.

Each title
     marking months,
          as years page by.

When I am at Mary’s,
     we mostly talk
          of books. Of Events.
               Of quotidian cares.

Knitting, gardens, riverbank walks.
     Small worries, large joys.

But sometimes,
     we gather in sorrow.
          After our husbands, children, dreams die.
               Or one of us.

So impossible, these endings.
     Even when expected,
          they surprise us.

When we are at Mary’s
     we are finding
          our way.