Raking leaves, the little man

hums hymns to him, alone.

His little wife, washing pans,

watches what she owns.

They can speak by sense of touch,

their kisses make no spittle.

Neither needs or wants too much,

what they have is little.

Two lives made of little things,

made smaller by themselves.

Thursday morning shopping runs,

on Friday fish and chips.

Saturday night wine for fun,

the Sunday call from kids.

A week in Filey in spring,

two in Norfolk later.

Christmas do the shopping thing,

New Year do the neighbours.

Young fun days are long gone now,

working life is over.

After earning life, somehow

they think they live in clover.

Though bloody veins still harden,

they feel no pain or or strife.

Two magpies share their garden,

a pair mated for life.

All they need is food and drink,

and to be together.

One pair lived a little life.

One pair hardly ever.