It is a strange week that has tracked me down –
Full of poignancy and sadness.
The death of a friend, who had already long gone,
Cast adrift in the fog.
The news that another has but weeks to open her eyes here –
Who blithely jokes that at least she is spared
The agony of that same fog –
A fog that like a creeping funeral pall hangs over us all
Like the latest modern scourge.
And amid the ruminations and sad reflection
The words of strangers intrude,
Whose pleasure is to be found in rudeness;
Who play the same playground sad game
Of bullying and ridicule
And seek amusement in hurting others.
And I’m in no mood to respond
Or counter in kind,
But merely wonder at the sickness that lies in the mind of men
Whose pleasure is but to destroy?
Ruefully looking back over the long furrows of time
Where the many seeds were sown with such great hope,
Seeds scattered in such love and joy,
Now plants struggling to reach the light through the clutching grasp
Of the many weeds.
Yet still we trudge the land and plough
Though there are fewer of us
And no expectation of a good crop.
Wearily I pause to look back through the haze of distance
To the furrows ploughed by my father and grandfather before me
Now smoothed by wind and rain
And returned to nature.
It is time to unwrap the sandwiches,
Take out the flask of coffee,
And sit a while
Else we miss the singing of the birds.