My work is done here.

My work is done here.

Old friends,

We sat and talked

Of art, poetry and how long it took

To write a line

Whether it was worthwhile

When so many people never knew

What it was like to chew over a word

Inspiration was something

We all thought too fleeting

The muse for what it was

Seemed to fly like a bird

Or a butterfly

Two school-aged kids stopped with their mum

To pick up a coffee

She brought her own cup

Will it be sustainable

When the prices go up

Coffee growers are people too

We talked about school

How many children ever read a book

And understood what had gone into its writing

But what did it matter

If they were transported

To distant realms

Fought dragons or lions

Slew demons before they took over the world

Discovered their voice

Whilst reading a sonnet

Neither child took the slightest

Bit of notice

The three of us were faceless

They asked for hot chocolate

But got short shrift

Mum was waiting for a lift

Dad would drop them off

At the gate

But he was running a little late

Do they see us for what we are

When there is a reading

Do they sit raptly or gaze up

At the ceiling wishing, they were

Anywhere else but

With us in the room

Listening to an old man’s voice

When if they had the choice

They would be the hero

Perhaps we should remember

What we did at their age

Did we really read Homer

At bedtime

If we truly believe

We can provide a key

To unlock the door between worlds

Perhaps we should try to provide

A bridge across the divide

We seem to have constructed

As we have grown older

Linking the meat and bones

Of the everyday

With the vagaries of

An internal dialogue

It took a while to agree

But we came to an understanding

It was better to spend less time

Squaring a circle

And more time, trying

To connect.