By Frank Jaye

 

You’ll get no Valentine from me; I’m not the type,

Pallid daffodils prematurely delivered – all that transatlantic hype.

I am not easy with love, be it concept, verb or noun,

My sentiments are more mundane and wear a plainer crown,

Embellished with affection, encouragement, respect not least,

You moderate my temper, rising still like yeast.

 

Maturity has scoured my edges and softened yours,

And laid time’s patina on unimportant flaws.

The swingeing tax of children is reduced to insignificant rate,

Interest accrues through their concern about our ripe and tranquil state.

Reliving youth through their careers and parenthood,

This time each pitfall belatedly recognised and understood,

And when illusion blurs and for the moment passes,

We smile, go home, and don our rosy glasses.

 

Our roles entwine, combine, reverse.

This week you the patient, I the nurse.

But beyond these superficial attributes,

It is you who has put down the roots,

Which have nurtured our married life,

Through forty years of man and wife,

So satin heart or sweet confection,

Could not express my deep affection. 

 

Frank Jaye (1926-2013)