Her needles click, weaving wool,
The gramophone sings Sinatra in brass,
She taps her foot next to her retired racer,
Whose milky eyes rest as his ears are stroked
Melodically by the soothing sounds
Of his musical master.
When she leaves, to buy bread or play bingo,
And the needles lie, Sinatra stops, the tapping ends,
He sits underneath the chimney of the new silent house,
Out of the light, into the dark.
The tiles are hard and the stone walls cold
But the howling winds that channel down
Help remind him that he’s not alone.