Rye Road Revisited

This morning, Indian tea by my window, the steam
of wet leaves just right for the view
of the common lawn under golden drifts, a pensioner
bent against the wind at 8 30 am, behind
a wheeled walker, early for the supermarket
as the old always are, shuffling as fast
as he can, followed by a fourteen-year old, cap
low and sagging backpack, late for school
as the young always are, slouching as slowly
as possible. The two keep perfect pace along the path.