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Let us go to face extinction

somewhere by the sea, like Frinton,

Tenby, maybe, or, at worst,

in a bungalow on the Yorkshire coast.


We’ll walk our old, arthritic dog

and watch him crap and tell him off

for balking at the absurd commands

we make believe he really understands


then drag him up the front and back.

We’ll take a flask and matching mac’s,

and a tartan rug to warm our knees

in seafront shelters, sheltered from the breeze.


On Sundays we’ll eat cold, roast ham

with salad or perhaps a can

of crabmeat or some Skipjack tuna,

so long as we can operate the opener –


“It’s stiffer than it used to be.”

From deck chairs we’ll gaze out to sea,

cursing as our powers wane,

to wash the upstairs windows or unblock the drains.


But if we’re lucky and we both last long enough,

we may just be redeemed by our sum of stored up love.

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