People in their mid years,
Their grandparents had long since passed.
Do not know this generation of beige soldiers
In their eyes they are placed in sub -categories
There are the Victor Meldrews’ , the grumpy ones
Some wander off in dreamlike places
Some minds definitely in far off spaces
The stumbelies , who insist on trying to cross the road.
Drivers wincing , please don’t try to run,
I am late for work as it is….
No patience awarded for tired old legs .
We were told to respect for their wisdom,
Their leg pulling , and colourful tales,
Their army days, and blowing the trombone in the marching band.
The ladies sat with their cups of tea,
Nets twitching, With talk of ‘her at number 11’.
Of the little sod who pinched the milk of the step.
We were told to go and see them,
we will when we have the time, got so much to do
And suddenly their gone,
taking the colourful tales and funny ways with them.
Until some one says..
‘do you remember when ?’ and they are with you again.