You sit there, on the old sofa,
That creaks with age,
Your beautiful face besieged by crevices,
That tell of seventy plus seasons.
You stare outside at the falling rain,
And speak of ‘bonus years’
How hard and difficult they are.
You reminisce fondly of days gone by,
And even of the enveloping dark knight,
Whose coming you seem to anticipate.
You smile gently when I beat myself up,
And say I ought to be kinder with myself.
Then we make promises of visits ,
Of projects to complete,
During the April that may come,