Late

But now it is what McCall Smith calls “late”

Sometimes when bereft I’d love a snail
Though it might wet my bed with silvery trails
Would snails be lonely living in my house?
Shall I be but fit to love one louse?

I hugged a rowan tree but now it’s dead
The council said they’ll give me oak instead
It stood upon the pavement by the gate
But now it is what McCall Smith calls “late”

I wonder if self massage is the thing
Some perfumed lotion stolen on the wing.
I stroked my arms with Cream E45
Now they say I’m not allowed to drive!

I was sad but now I am at peace

I recommend an electric heated fleece