Roy Plomley’s tones they haunt us still as we settled back for a recorded thrill The choice is, now, not eight, fine disks Instead, it’s avoiding airborne risks The imagined island in a calm blue sea Is a place we will never ever be, Imagined with solitary palm tree on it, Where we might read a Shakespeare sonnet, What thoughts we had, in days gone by, Of all the tempting things to try, Of the joys of still and quiet contentment Free from the pains of sharp resentment. Where we might stand and simply stare With freedom from worry and dull care. But on this island where we now all live It is a time not to take but instead to give. Free from the pressure of our bosses There is time to fill - play noughts and crosses? The morning papers are now much thinner While news grows daily grim and grimmer. We hope our bulbs will stay alight That we’ll not be plunged into endless night, Or stagger about in candles’ glimmer As day retreats and light grows dimmer. Brown bread we’ll bake, perhaps stoneground, If only yeast and flour could be found? We may enjoy pulses and green beans To achieve ‘five-a-day’ by any means. But choice will slide and soon we’ll shrink When there’s less available than we think. So, to flower beds and borders we’ll say goodbye As garden-grown spuds we may have to try. Many disappointments we will have to smother, But let us smile and remember, we have each other.
