The years are fleet of foot, but days are heavy-booted,
Childhood, marriage, the steel works - gone in a flash.
Three sons grown and flown. Good lads: they write,
Though less since Edith died.
Mornings dawdle: radio on, porridge, tea,
And out into the garden.
Maybe transplant the sweet-pea seedlings; fingers clumsy now;
Pick early radishes and the last few snowdrops -
She did love those each spring. Use the little fish-paste jar
Hoarded down the years.
The World at One, a look atthe paper - what a world!
Who are these people? Names change so fast.
We need another Churchill at the helm.
The foot lady this afternoon; a Mrs. Dyer;
It's come to something when you need the like -
And me, the Works left wing, flying down the field!
Change socks, polish shoes, a bit of housework needed,
Cobwebs on the ceiling: she'd have hated that.
Maybe on a chair .... but .... but I'm going ....
.......... .......... ...... .... .. ..
It's no good shouting when there's no-one to hear.
