St. Valentine's Day
By Wilfred Scawen Blunt
TO-DAY, all day, I rode upon the down,
With hounds and horsemen, a brave company
On this side in its glory lay the sea,
On that the Sussex weald, a sea of brown.
The wind was light, and brightly the sun shone,
And still we gallop'd on from gorse to gorse:
And once, when check'd, a thrush sang, and my horse
Prick'd his quick ears as to a sound unknown.
I knew the Spring was come. I knew it even
Better than all by this, that through my chase
In bush and stone and hill and sea and heaven
I seem'd to see and follow still your face.
Your face my quarry was. For it I rode,
My horse a thing of wings, myself a god.
Valentine's Day is no big deal really in this household. An imported custom that doesn't seem authentic and besides, there's no-one here experiencing the first blush of young love. Yet. Thanks heavens.
No time for luvvy-duvvy stuff either between the old marrieds, what with an early start and late finish respectively. His steed is a hulking late model SUV. She canters in a city runabout with a child-proof rear seat protector. The 'chase' is a drive up and down a major city thoroughfare multiple times to deliver and collect children. Phone calls are made, not to whisper sweet nothings, but to synchronise transport arrangements.
A love affair of a different sort.