Old age and crocodiles

Mornings spent lazily lying below a mist

of speckled sun. Its rays are reaching

from between the curtains up  to the dusty beams,

let glorious baubles dance across the ceiling

There is no time, no haste, a languid vision

picking at the frayed selvages of silence

where thoughts contain the rise and fall of floods.

Is mother in the kitchen? Will she call? 

Or can I stay in bed or will I have

to go to school, show the new satchel off?

But did my husband say he’d come for lunch?

And  should  I make him dumplings with the pork

And what about the baby? Is the nurse

not due to give her those injections soon?

No way!  I must be dreaming. I am old!

And I can vow for that with my white hair.

Will Polly come with me to Brighton’s beach?

And shall we jump into the green blue suds

of North Sea’s sandy beach?

We’re friends, you know, since I have found her by

the bus stop at the corner where we meet

taking the bus to the old people’s place

 to play with helpers Dorothy and Ray.

Polly had chicken once, she told.

And when the fox came, they had gone for good

except a cockerel’s feather that was stuck,

a trophy,  in the middle of the lawn! 

Now  Polly shows me, secretly , a bulge

in her coat pocket. New eggs, as she says.

From her last visit, Monday, at the zoo. 

She nicked them when the crocodiles were fed.

What fun, I say, we’ll use the warming lamp,

the one for my arthritis, if you please,

and try and hatch them, play with them at home,

 those green and smiling baby crocodiles.