Kibworth Beauchamp

When I was a dandy young buck
of some twenty summers,
the world was my lobster
and this village
was my Dairylea triangle.
By degrees,
it succumbed to my knife:
I spread it thickly
on the dry water biscuit
of my life.

Now I am moribund,
95% dead,
about to kick the bucket
and exit stage left.
This house is a stockade;
my sorry ass carcass
rots inside this Pot Noodle prison.
I am the indeterminate
snippings of dried veg,
waiting for the divine restitution,
the reconstitution that comes
with the pouring in of water,
just off the boil.

Will no one
put the kettle on?

B.R. 22/06/2019