Sunday morning in June...
SUNDAY MORNING BLUES
The rain is splashing down
from grey clouds all around.
Soaking everything in sight,
leaving puddles of water
as markers for its sorrow.
Its neither hot nor cold,
but the weeds will love this:
Will grow ferociously thick.
And the hedge will sprout
new expectant growth.
The electricity flickers
on and off, off and on –
Man’s usual disability
to maintain sustainability
in this his broken new world.
It is no good me thinking
that it is nonseasonal,
that it is unreasonable,
That it is plain and simple ‘wrong’ –
I can only be the observer.
I have long since seen
that there is nowhere to hide:
Nowhere in this World where
I could escape my reality.
It is put up and shut up time.
I’m approaching eighty years
and this morning’s feeling
is only ‘sad’ because I know
I have felt this way before:
This sensational chill and damp.
The sense of Worldly sadness;
The sense we’re marking time
with tired legs stomping
on the saturated Earth
but no longer moving forward.
It is a cycle in which we’re trapped
time in which we’re handicapped.
© Griffonner 2022
Poetry by Griffonner
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Editors' choiceWritten on 2022-07-04 at 00:02
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