There is always a way, the optimist says,
Yet the creak of life’s tensions groan low,
They shadow the quake that the floor he walks makes,
And the air as it travels says so.
See the mist pale & thick,
It caresses each tip, every leaf, every needle and frond,
He smiles a wide smile at a metallic knell
Like sweet chiming bells,
Speaking scenes to his minds inner eye.
The paleness surrounds like great steam clouds,
Then a strong rasping sound cuts in with a short rhythmic note,
He sees a blue breaking through, the white tendrils grow few,
he gazes on grey shining ribbons of track
With a curve running clean through fields of sage green.
Wheat silos by pale gold hay stacks.
Then with curses and clumps the foreman climbs up and
Hauls another rasping board to his stage,
“Hey grab hold of this mate! You’re making us late”,
As a bucket of clamps clatters down!
So with a spanner in hand he re-joins the gang,
And puts his hand to a galvanised pole,
It’s cold and damp to his grip, and he feels his heart dip,
As he thinks on the life he now lives,
Lost in terraces grey while for hours he slaves,
So far from his Wichita home,
With his quiet English wife and two children besides,
And soon into a nursery they'll go.
But dear God in heaven the sign said 7 to 7,
Is that the start to a balanced home life?
© Joe Maverick 2010