The tide is coming.
Rheumy eyes lost on the horizon. Misting, over half memories.
Vera Lynn keeping us firmly in the past. Time in the present ever shorter.
Flask piping hot, burnt lips. Lunch heartily eaten.
Talk of family long-gone and family non-existent. Half finished sentences.
Singing until hoarse, oblivious of time and place.
Home before dusk or enter a world of anxiety and confusion.
The tide is gone.
I shall miss Sundays.