If ever my love grows cold

A sonnet about the immutability of true love.

If ever my love grows cold; should snow encrust
my heart, remind me then on that winter day
of this tulip-filled afternoon. If rust
collects on my thirsty throat, then you may
wash it clean with singing and good wine.

If my taste ever turns to things less sweet
than your kiss, touch your lips softly to mine
like the golden whisper of wind on wheat.

If my senses fail and your beauty
can no longer light my days, do not fear.
For I’ve fixed you in mind; and my duty:
to nurture you in my inmost eye an ear.

Though chance and change bend all men to their will,
love stands outside them; they do us no ill.

By Timothy Hankins

A theologian, pastor, and writer who seeks to teach and live the fullness of the ancient Christian faith. Anglican in a Wesleyan way (read: Methodist).