My well worn shoes
Were letting water in.
Yet I resisted the bin,
Just give them the chop
Like some Anne Boleyn?
A bloody sin! No!
How could I dispose when
In frost and hail over ditch and swale,
Through chicken poos
These well worn shoes
(With gaping holes flecked)
Earned respect. And
More! Many the day
On slopes well rounded
They were the only thing
That kept me grounded.
Yet with regret I couldn’t forget
The pinky ten were getting wet.
I needed a solution.
“Alas no Sir”, said the Old Cobbler,
“Can’t be sealed.
Waste of time. Can’t be healed. Be content,
They’ve done their share.
Spread the wealth and buy a pair.”
A new pair! As simple as that!?
Shoes in hand I donned my cap.
Yet times are strange and getting stranger
And all is not lost that is in danger!
These well worn shoes still have their pew
On the highest shelf and just like you
They wait for skies to clear and glow.
It’s on warm sunny days that we go
Into the garden to weed. And then, all ten
Dry pinkies breath in cool air and sigh,
“This is a pair that money just can’t buy!”
Dermy McNally ©