A rosy glow adorns this morning’s sky,

today, we regulars pay our respects,

tomorrow, with an angel I will play.

A quiet bloke, he’d been around the world,

of Africa and engineering spoke,

of vintage motorbikes, and automatic cars,

the pros and cons of smart-or not-TVs,

of pacemakers, the NHS, and stuff,

and never took his little trilby off,

a different one from time to time, he’d sport;

today we’ll quaff a pint, or two, or three,

share peas and pasties with his family,

and have a laugh, or shed a quiet tear,

we’ll celebrate our camaraderie;

tomorrow is of course, another day,

on which an angel, fifty-three moons old,

will grace us with her presence, about noon;

she found the button on my reclining chair

some months ago; flat on my back I go

whilst drinking tea; her Peppa Pig no more

sufficient entertainment for that girl!

a spy glass to inspect wee creepy crawlies,

a book about the planets and the stars

I’ve bought this lass who makes our world go round;

sunrise, sunset, Grandad, you’re upside down!