Titchmarsh on the telly

It's 8 o'clock,- a weekday clear!
The sun is out,-test complete
postbox empty still.
No need to brush my hair;
my children long since gone
as have the miles I've walked!

Could I think this day would come?
when teeth just set aside
or did I think my eyes would see
a empty house or ticking clock
a hall where little coats once hung
and mittens not in pairs.

Who will mind the hat I wear
or teabags in my hair
or take my mobile from the bin
or fret at dumplings solid
and food a trifle fusty
with memory over-run?

Yet, I am the same inside
as when I skipped to school
or fell from high heel shoes
or watched the new day rise
and hid new clothes away
until the next day came.

Titchmarsh on the telly; no wellies!
Kilroy-now where is he?
and what is there for tea?
but wait a sec; I have a life
and memories to
of milkbottles on the step.

Library books and ingle nooks
bus pass at the ready
for when my day descends
My smile is wide
both ears wiggle
and tongue in constant use.

I'll touch the rose
and scratch my nose
and drink another bottle
then throw away the key
that says "It's only me!