To WW@dovecottage.lit.uk

02/04/05 11.30 am

Yes, we’re further from the east, you’re right,

But then we’re also nearer to the west,

And who’s to say,

Of childhood gone,

Or age to come,

Which one is really best?

Take that “trailing clouds of glory” bit.

The line is fine, but it doesn’t fit

The kids next door,

To give an example painfully close at hand.

Well, the two of them and their little band,

Have been shooting penalties for hours,

Banging the wall till my head is sore,

And one by one beheading

All my best flowers.

My daffodils are all a mess,

Which gives me food for thought,

And the mossy stones do not protect,

Those violets I bought.

The glory is not clouds, just puffs of smoke,

From little battles lost and won,

But we get somewhere none the less,

As we struggle on towards the sun.

Yes, much is lost along the way,

We lose the thrill of each new day,

The eyesight goes,

The body slows,

We turn up the telly even more,

And the stairs are higher than before.

What we have lost,

You’ve well explained,

Yes, much has gone,

I’ll give you that,

But wouldn’t you say,

If pressed,

That something’s gained?

Poem every Monday