‘Larches’ is now a stubble field;
Exeter has reaped our yield.
Ketchup, peanut-butter jars
Mourn on shelves while parts of cars
Anglia, M.G., Caravelle
Rattle the dustbin like a knell.
No nose-prints mar the windowpane
And hotter water too’s a gain..
A strangely tidy upstairs room..
A quiet house – a little gloom.
Time, tide wreak not the status quo;
Arrows all must leave the bow.
Godspeed you son where ‘ere you go.
I stalk the lawn with my sad hoe…