Our endless, numbered days
"The Child is father of the Man", Wordsworth, The Rainbow, The Lucy Poems
Listening to the city children playing out,
Heard through an open window on this endless summer eve,
"Last out again!" they cry.
Their voices mingling like sea gulls' cries
As they circle, high above any coast.
Who can boast of possessions -
Money, pensions, houses, stocked and certainly not shared -
When we have the world's children to nurture?
We hope they are loved, as every child deserves to be,
Regardless of race, heritage, locality.
But what do we give? What do we do?
What do we share - money, time, house, pensions, expertise, dreams?
The baby boomers, unlike their parents who fought through war, unlike their children fighting to preserve the planet,
Allowed themselves to be conned, into believing there's no such thing as society;
More fool we, as we stumble through our endless, numbered days, towards a solitary grave.