Sun-bleached bones disturb
rain starved excavation sites;
found by chance, signposts
that direct us through
the folds of time; outlining
the true spoor of life.
Men folk, are but puppets, in nature’s play,
captivated by this world’s mise-en-scene;
and so they examine preceding days,
in search of what their experience means.
They turn over, hitherto, untouched stones,
and gaze at the sky with a dead goat’s stare.
They rifle through the earth and bloodless bones,
and take to their knees to tender their prayers.
They hope and hope there is something more,
unable to grasp their impermanence,
intractably, expecting man’s encore,
strung like pearls, and practising their penance.
Does conviction in a heavenly being,
absolve man’s life from having no meaning.
He parks his car before an old girl’s drive,
and ignores her handmade copperplate sign,
‘No Cars’ it rules, in ink now long since dry;
yet every morning at twenty to nine,
he arrives, sure as the compass points north,
one of the briefcase carrying brigade,
then he hurries to his train henceforth,
praying it’s not crowded, or worse, delayed.
Swiftly flitting through the pavement traffic,
and skipping in and out of the gutter.
His good shoes are in his bag, wise tactic,
still people shout ‘Suit and trainers nutter!’
He must travel for miles to work each day.
leaving no time for fun, all work no play.