Camped out on a lower slope, dog tired at the toposcope
Hot soup in the aftermath, salad days in many ways.
Then time creeps up unseen
And it puts me back at the front of the bus,
Hands I once held no longer there,
Grey falls on the green
As I try’n get used to me and not us
Where I’m going I’m not sure that I care.
Still thought I could play out wide, felt sure I could stay onside
But stiff limbs and a shin which looks like Inter’s end on derby day day.
Time’s crept up unseen
And it’s stuck me back at the front of the bus,
Bound who knows where, free of charge
The situation’s lean
Though it could be worse so I don’t make a fuss
Still evading capture, still at large.
Somebody’s mumbling Galatians
Somewhere a rope print fleece needs 90 degrees
Pushchair related confrontations
Pastoral conceits, Italian fancies, comic glees.
No stroll of a summer’s eve, neck brace and a shower sleeve
Hot soup in the afterlife, got my fingers crossed because
Old Father Time’s a lie
And he’s sat by me at the front of the bus.
Here I am as there I was before
Things I hold dear
Held in place by means of a surgical truss
Sorry, not in service any more.