Pop’s a plodder.

Pop’s a plodder from wayback.

There’s an art to plodding.

You start at A. You see B.

You take your sweet time getting there. 
Nan’s a sprinter.

She’s off her marks and getting set

While Justin’s halfway through a dream. 
Nan is porridged and foraged and lacquered and snacked.

Head down and bum up in the garden.

She hardens. 
Pop’s preparing his affairs,

on a chair in the sun.

He’ll be there “Drekly.”

He’s on a cruise. He’s having a snooze.

He’s in a meeting with the paper.

Liaising through marmalade. 
Nan is gloved and shoved,

fingers deep in mud.

She’s legs spread and trimming.

(the shellbacks are winning).

“BLOODY SODS OF THINGS!”

She’s topping up water for birds,

and tearing her shirt. 
Nan needs little.

Pop takes little.

It’s their blooming lot.

Hey diddle!
Nan grows. Pop mows.

Together they keep light and shade.

Pop softens. He’s ready for tasks.

He won’t find out if he doesn’t ask. 
Pop’s in trouble.

He’s burst Nan’s bubble!

She’s had all morning to prepare this speech.

Pop’s in deep.

He’s off down the town.

Nan’s a-frown.
Justin’s in between.

He knows that they mean. 
He’ll help Pop shop.

And parry with Nan.

He knows not the plan.

He just wants a cool time,

and the sun on his spine. 
Mum isn’t here.

This isn’t her scene.