This is a poem to describe how I've been feeling recently. As though I am much too far out, and not waving but drowning. Again, it's one that I've known for a long time, and enjoyed at different periods of my life for different reasons. Now, it's report writing season, it's a child who wants to know details of his stepfathers death, it's a campervan that always needs something, it's teaching which always needs something, it's a house that always needs something, it's a child and a man who always need something, and it's stretching me thin. It's a poem that asks us to look at our perceptions of the actions of others. How many of us are, like me at the moment, like a swan? Serene on the surface and paddling like heck beneath the surface just trying to stay afloat?
Anyway, albeit a day late, here are my Wednesday Words.
Not Waving But Drowning.
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning;
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him, his heart gave way,
They said.
Oh no, no, no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life,
And not waving, but drowning.
See? That assumption that he was larking meant that his worries were missed, and society tidied up what it wanted to think about his death.
Anyway, now you need to pop over to
Crazy With Twins who is no doubt more cheerful than me.
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