Laborious through the October days
We struggle onwards through unknowing
And hide our feelings from each other
Under cover of banalities. Soon
As the dark afternoons join the dark mornings
We will be submerged
Completely, and drown
Meaninglessly as we lived.
Passive is no good.
Passively hoping but not acting
Sheer leaden passivity
Getting in the way
As, despite blue skies
Through the uncurtained window,
I move around trivia
While purpose waits beneath a thick
Invisible veil.
Consider the shopping we do
And all the trivial news
That we read in the papers
As if it had meaning or us.
The rolls, butter, milk that we buy
Has at least the function
Of keeping us going
On the constant search.
Doing nothing is no answer.
Doing nothing is useless. So-called
Leisure is only good
If used as a contrast to labour,
To unjangle nerves, to soothe
Fractious reactions. Even at sixty
There are so many things that could
Be done to help people, to help
Oneself endure
The death march of days.
Routine, routine on the route
To one unknowable certainty.
