Sunday Morning Blues
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Sunday morning in June... 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. © Allen Ansell 2022
Thoughtful and wonderful poem.
You can certainly see your writing skills in your work. All the time go after your heart.
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