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?