Glory Days

In those hungry years
when we were young,
we had nothing.
Not as much as
two halfpennies
to rub together, except
every bag of fish and chips
and swig of Coke,
was champagne and oysters –
a trace of lipstick
on a polystyrene cup,
enough to send
my pulses racing.

We, who excelled
at mixing cocktails
from ideals, and good
old-fashioned tap-water –
tarried in Elysium fields
yet never left our bed.
Sailed seamlessly through
uncharted waters
from the back row
of the local flea-pit.
Walked, the long way home,
rather than take the bus.

Only now,
in these so-called
fat-cat years of middle-age,
I realise that those indeed
were the glory days.
And that you were the best
of each and every one.