Times change with the seasons

Times change with the seasons

Nothing is as was

When ordinary folks wore their Sunday best

Had a special tea set

For visitors

Only using the front room

When the vicar called.

Polishing their shoes

Every morning

As regularly as clockwork

Without ever being in the army.

Issuing a rota of chores

To be completed

Before tea time

When, if you were a good little soldier

And cleared your plate

You could have a treat

Of a shortbread biscuit

With a glass of milk

For supper,

Maybe a trip to the sweet shop

At the weekend.

Saving the best until last

Was always a sure way

To finish dinner

And accrue a gold star

The homemade chart stuck on the inside

Of the pantry door

Just out of reach

To stop any illicit rearrangement.

I wonder if toffs say “Never on a Sunday”

Or is that just for the plebs

Unless perhaps they are puritanical

Or doctrinaire,

Revering the Sabbath

As a time to reconnect

To their old values.

Perhaps they are just mean

Old punishments introjected

For the repressed

With half a mind to come clean

To the unexpressed sin

Of just being

When too many souls

Were told

To be invisible.

Nothing remains sacred

If it is profitable.

Perhaps I should use

The fine crystal glass

For drinking

Instead of watching it sparkle

In the cabinet.

Is there a point in buying something

Just to watch it grow old,

Unused.

So much of what I have is

Left on the shelf

Gathering a layer of memories

As thick as the dust

On the top of the wardrobe

In the spare room

Where the box of old photographs

Has lain undisturbed

Since before the fall.

What is the point of it all

When I use one cup

One plate

One bowl

One spoon

One knife and one fork

Perhaps it’s time for a change

A spring clean

Out with the old

In with the new

Perhaps I need to use it

Or lose it.