Retirement Poem by Michael Cayley

I tell how I stuttered boo on Eton steps
when the queen's horses and men
fetched her maid's sick boy to put him together again.

They look down at their brilliant clothes
and laugh fractionally. What's Victoria to them?

My old suit is lumpy with food.
There's no getting away from it.
The crutches slope against the park seat.

Escorting me, they joke about my toddling.
I am watched over and amused like a tiny tot.