A warm fire in the afternoon.
An old man and his TV.
Armchair, cushions, newspaper,
And a blanket on the knee.
Loosen the belt, turn the hearing aid off,
The volume up and flick.
A documentary about Hitler and the Holy Grail,
The pyramids and Watson and Crick.
Drifting in and out of slumber,
An intermittent snore,
Dozing eyes behind drooping lids,
Catch the odd image of a war.
Or ancient parchments — hieroglyphics —
A camera panning far,
Computer graphics, simulations,
A safari-suited bore.
His voice so sure and steady,
(Emotion? No, not too much!)
Soothing, calming authority,
To help digest the lunch.
The old man wakes just as evening falls.
(The wife is due in soon.)
He shakes off sleep, stokes the fire,
And switches to the news.
The front door sounds.
(The wife is in!)
Bags plonked in the hall.
“Anything decent on my dear?”
“What? Not a bloody thing at all!”