The Ring

I do not wear a ring, but I have thought
the one you wear, with simple golden flowers
has been for both of us since it was bought.
For cut in it I see the craftsmanlike hours
employed where love holds fast: the hidden, short
root-piercing cloudburst; stinging, refreshing showers;
dull gold of the sun where now crowned heads pay court.
I see a modest richness that is ours,

and say that I wear a ring, not one of gold,
not one to be seen, but to be sensed in the arms
that reach around where only love can fold.
Round all a summer garden’s evening charms
are hands met, fingers touching – and I hold
a ring, of truth, of grace, past all alarms.