A surly sod never content

Well almost never sad to say

Not that strife is his intent

And good intentions go astray

That’s almost not quite what I am

But sometimes circumstances shine – 

Three generations, one in a pram

His mother, our daughter, yours and mine

And us, thus four, in an ancient city

Threatening  rain but relenting,

Wandering, going in shops so pretty

Our lovely grandson focussing

All attention – then to a café 

Tea, coffee, cake and change the lad!

then home – goodbye – what more to say?

Save heaven compared would come off bad

And then, for you, ‘Orlando the Cat’

What could be better – such love! – than that?