The Last Breakfast

We sit down together with the last of the left-overs,
Grateful for so much in a world of so little,
Just a cup, mere clay moulded for use,
Not unwanted, not unloved,
Past 'best before', its usefulness done,
Ready for disposal or possibly a make-over,
So we ascend the steps of the scaffold of execution,
While the hangman strides, hands behind his back
As they're tossed into the cauldron that is just a skip,
Shattering on impact with bomb-blasting echo
To become nothing with others in a common grave,
Dismembered, but remembered as bread is broken,
Sharing another cup, another life, and more love
While someone else gives his life for another.
August 2021

On leaving our home in Bromley for the last 21 years