Octogenarian

The sky washedhands water grey,
Guarding against the Summer,
Shares my mood as it skims
Over the gravelback driveway:
"You told me you had plans".

The boat sails the Lawn Sea,
Crosstrainer falls on slippered toes,
Old paint cans and carpets lie,
like ruins of the civilisation,
of the Otter Valley uplands.

For four weeks you have done nothing,
but sift yellowing papers
a maniacal clerk of black binliners
of statements, claims and reports,that no longer matter.

And now you stand here in the garage,
face blank as broken tiles,
and say with no hint of irony,
"You told me you had plans".
You selfish bloody man.

She may be gone by Christmas,
I tell myself she won't of course,
She has the life force and a World War,
behind her brown plastic glasses
But there is always the chance. Always.

"It's not a taxi service".
If only lightning would crack now,
and strike some selfless thought
into your Yorkshire dulled head
But the sky is grey, and so am I.

"Oh". What else is there to say?
Traverse the Lawn Sea,
back into the fort to solitude.
Ignore and be ignored.
Until I go back to my true home.