Spar

 

Spar

 

In the bleak midwinter,

well, that must be him, then.

Off down Spar, fetching milk;

she shows no guilt,

fixed in position,

by 'Miss Marple' or 'Murder, She Wrote',

some shite where an Alsatian barks,

if it  turns up drugs,

she shrugs.

Wind’s howling, tossing trash,

and guesses he could make it

before night falls - if he dashes

down rain sluiced hill

and puffs back up again;

oh, if looks could kill,

Dick Van Dyke would be scratching

his jutting, grizzled chin

deducing that milk is put in

to cool endless cups of tea

he's bringing, fetching, carrying,

while those dulcet tones

have his ears ringing,

screams that could hole hulls,

of a dozen squabbling gulls,

with tinnitus pounding, cutting

like scissors through paper

wrapping rocks

around his calm sea lapped isle.

And, all the while

she’s nursing crippled knees,

mentioned earlier she fell

onto concrete stairs,

not that he’d care,

but they'd improved,

however, they’ve now seized,

like an inactive motor

she never turned over,

for twenty odd years.

Then: ‘I’ve been thinking

on Christmas’.

Him, brutal, cutting her off.

with, ‘What did we need?

From your shop?’

‘Oh, I don’t know why I bother,’

she snaps, ‘No one gives a toss.’

So near, so Spar?

Don’t make him laugh,

and do tell, what’s wrong with her

lifting up her fat arse

and taking her fucking car?