They sit like pepper and salt pots
White and silent, under the harsh sun
Their hair is unisex, for easy-care
His shirt is M & S
Her socks are Laura Ashley
They are coasting the pages for news
Of British affairs
Two of their five-a-day fruits
Sit on a sparse table
A pear, a plum, not luscious
He studies the finance page
She scans the agony aunt
She is a clapped -out mini
He is a burned -out Ferrari
Two Cox’s Pippins in an ex-pat orangerie
Together they count their cholesterol
Ration their pension
Eking out their dying years in the Costas
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