SUNDAY SCRIBBLINGS
DROUGHT
(An Acrostic)
Dark clouds that pass, without relief;
Red soil, and eyes red too, from grief;
Only the dried-up husks of corn;
Unhappy farmers who watch and mourn;
Gardens standing brown and dry;
Hungry animals standing by;
This was Australia for the decade past,
But there is hope......rain came at last!
*
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HOLDING BACK THE TIDE
With paint and rollers, sweat and strain
We try to make things good again.
When time and usage make their mark
We must ignite the initial spark....
The time when our house was fresh and new
And our refurbishing plans were few.
Our home was viewed with complacent pride,
And we were neatly tucked inside.
But rust and mould and flaking paint
Were all at work, though their mark was faint.
A touch-up job just now and again
Could turn the losses into gain.
A new tile here, a new tap there
Could give the place a well-kept air.
But, as the years creep on and on,
We find pristineness has up and gone.
Finally, even the rollers die;
They give up the ghost, refuse to try.
We find we cannot run away
From the powering tide known as Decay.
*
