On reserve.

Almost two months since the last tale I told,
river not flowing, ideas running cold,
a rush- rush of duties, creativity on hold,
new puppy to play with, a long way off old.

Baby granddaughter in her month number eight,
waving goodbye to her mummy at the gate,
rushing in a panic to work for her fate,
hoping fervently that she isn’t late.

Bottle in the warmer, loud is the girl,
puppy in the rain, wet ears all a curl,
researching best doggy-food, don’t want him to hurl,
Pretty choca-sprocker, precious as a pearl.

Don my nun’s habit and speak the tongue of Macbeth,
rush to the madding crowd almost out of breath,
losing weight rapidly after a dog walk on the Heath,
yet stay away grim reaper I’m not ready for death.