They always met in secret, Jim and his sweetheart Prue,
her father disapproved ,what else were they to do?
She, the mill owners daughter, him, a cobbler by trade,
she had no reason to work and he was poorly paid.
Their meetings always in darkness, her excuse, a friend was ill
but the bench in the park by the lake, no longer held such a thrill.
They knew their love was hopeless, feelings they couldn’t deny
her father insisted she marry, his greed to satisfy.
There at the very last meeting, they clung to each other so tight,
undying love was the pact they made, there, together that night.
Her gift, a cravat of finest silk, to be worn as Sunday best,
his, a circle of purest gold on her finger, let time be the test.
Widowed for many a year, though he never forgot her words,
friends discussing Prues death, by chance Jim overheard.
Apart for most of their lifetime, her love never left his heart,
at the graveside that day, upset, alone, after the mourners depart
he told her his love was undying, she’d always been his girl,
now on the bench he sits crying, watching the leaves as they swirl.
A young girl sits down beside him, his eyes never leave the ground,
she tenderly touches his hand, her voice the only sound.
“Hello Jim”, she softly whispers, slowly, so slowly he stands
“I love you, I always have”, together they left holding hands.
Jim was found in the morning, at peace now, alone he sat,
on his face a beautiful smile, round his neck, her paisley cravat.
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