Poor old dears in

flower-bed bonnets

hobbling out against

the sun of all

their Summers;

you glance away as they

bear their youth towards

the last of the light.

Hard to imagine now

those same sparrow legs

plump with

fruity flesh

and splaid in the

pursuit of happiness.

Yet it’s not the thing

itself much changed;

only the packaging

which time takes a life

teasing at:

as though its pleasure

were not the gift,

but the unwrapping.