Barefoot through the Bluebells

The morning after I retired
we walked, hand in hand,
barefoot through the bluebells.
I ran my fingers through her hair,
a whiter shade of grey. Remarked
she grew more lovely by the day.

Then we browsed a Tuesday market.
Bought a gigantic water-melon –
cracked a joke about its size.
I waxed lyrical about her eyes.
Told her they resembled
limpid rock-pools.

In the back row of the flicks
canoodled like we knew
there would be no tomorrow.
Then this lad said out loud,
“Ere, get them – that pair of old fogies.
Should be ashamed of themselves at their age.”

If looks could kill, she would have
done so, twice over. “So love’s
only for the young? Well then, it’s OK.
You see, my man and me,
we’re in our second childhood.” One flash
of those eyes said it all and more besides.