Ah, no.

No, we were only playing, yes we were. We were playing, laughing. How we laughed and played, and dallied, yes, in that rose garden. Did we ever do anything but dally, in it? That's it. That's it. But it's previous.

This is altogether more serious.

My books, they get older.

Outside, the sky burns.

And for us? Well, like the world, we breathe a little faster. We ache a little more. We come as hard as ever but with, perhaps, a little less certainty. But who would argue with that? What are the middle aged for but to lend a little character to acts of eternity?

I hear Gareth, the scrape of his chair.

Are we done?

I think not.