A poem by Rupert M Loydell.
I went down to the creek this morning,
instead of going straight to work,
to try and find a reason to live here.
Cold clouds covered the sky and waders
strutted their stuff. The boat was bone dry
despite the wet, and I had the place
to myself. That’s often how it is
out of season, when the village seems
half-abandoned and we hide ourselves
in our badly built bungalows and hope
the sun will come out soon, or at least
it will stop raining. I’ve only just got used
to it being this year and soon it will
be over. You don’t want to be as old
as you are and haven’t the girls
grown up fast? Work and pay conditions
never get any better, and since I won’t
have any pension I’m not sure why
I’m doing it anyway. Tonight, it is raining
again and the wind is blowing a gale.
Dustbins clatter outside and an owl’s
busy calls remain unanswered.
The future will most likely turn out
to be simply more of the same,
with nowhere to go in the mornings.