Hours of work to no avail,
Searching for something that can’t be found,
Looking through those wooden splintered shelves of the old bookshop,
That used to bring the light of imagination to my eyes.
Now only dull matter remains,
Sluggishly guiding my weakening body,
Through the mist of the early morning,
Creeping into my brain through my ears,
Carrying whispers for me to stay at home,
Until evening were my warm bed,
Unmade and inviting,
But some time during this,
The moment arrives,
A friend comes into view,
And the performance begins again,
The mist leaves and the artificial light of a bulb comes,
To make believe a jolly countenance.
Misery smiles upon the happy,
With is gnarled yellow teeth and black tongue,
With barbs at its ends,
Expectantly waiting for the inevitable.
Joy is the time that it takes for Misery to grow bored,
It’s the child that waddles up to its mother,
Grabs her hand and dragging her to escape the rain,
Both giggling all the way,
For the want of an umbrella.
Let Ireland have more umbrellas!
To helps us as we creep along soggy ground,
Solid but for fear of falling we inch towards firm ground.
Let us be the child that cheers the lonely walker,
On the footpath outside the house,
With a warm fire glowing behind us,
As we hold a flask of tea,
Dirt still clinging onto our own yellow wellies,
Remains from our own muddy journey.
Bookshelves in the window,
One spine invitingly silver amongst the grey and blue.