Joint first prize

Muesli

You think I don’t see 
how small your life is now;
how books and magazines torment.

You think I don’t hear 
how tired you are of ‘pardon?’

You think I don’t get it 
that the wartime-you still drives
an ambulance in Sunderland,
still dances, walks the dog along the sand;

that the walking stick taken up 
Helvellyn and Gable has let you down;
that friends don’t call to see you, 
that the dearest ones are gone.

You think I don’t sense
appetites diluted, horizons reduced
to the next cat nap, another small glass,
whatever on the TV, then bed at last.

You think I can’t be pole-axed
understanding how your choice
is pared right back 
to wording on a breakfast pack

By Pru Kitching