Terminus

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 and 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 says
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 wolf-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
I’ve got my fingers crossed, because
Old Father Time’s arrived
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

Videos

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