Thursday, February 17, 2011

High Rise

Say the word 'isolation' and picture a desert isle
Where you might go and vegetate in freedom for a while.
Say the word 'isolation' and picture an astronaut
Surrounded by stars and planets and equipment of every sort.
Then say the word 'isolation' and picture something demeaning.
Imagine a life restricted and devoid of personal meaning.
Maybe there are 'isolates' who enjoy their high-rise living;
Maybe they spurn the life 'downstairs', and find it unforgiving.
But what of Charlie, the pensioner, with a family that's scattered;
Everything being in the past, everything that's mattered?
He says 'I don't go out much. It's too far to the lift;
So I stay here in my own four walls. Don't think I'll ever shift.'
And what of Melanie, the girl who fancied city life;
Who thought she'd find her Mr Right and become a happy wife?
She says 'I'm over thirty now; I haven't any friends;
It's nothing but work and travel and here's where each day ends.'
And what of Kylie, the Mother, the saddest case of all,
With no-one to talk to but toddlers, who drive her up the wall?
She's three little ones to care-for and she lives on the fifteenth floor.
No wonder she sometimes asks herself 'What on earth is it all for?
I can take the kids to the playground, but to get there is a pain,
And no sooner are we all downstairs than we're toiling up again.
I must wrap them in their winter clothes, and they squabble and they fight;
I can't be bothered about myself; I always look a sight.
The pram, with little Sunday in it is difficult to budge,
Sometimes there's no room in the lift; it's very hard to judge.
It's all too tough! If we don't go out the kids just scrap and bawl!
Then there's the shopping. Bloody Hell! I'm going up the wall!'
That, my friends, is 'isolation'; there's nothing 'splendid' about it!
Many , many people say
'I'd love to live without it.'



A custom sadly lost.
The Family Bible
The Word Of God.
(So they said).
But, for me,
Its charm lay in
The Family Histories
On the fly-leaves.
I can click, of course.
I can peck my way
Through internet details.
But can any click
Bring the magic of faded ink?
The paper I touch,
Old, faintly dusty and perfumed by time,
Has been touched by the Writer!
That must mean something.
The shaky handwriting
Has come into being
At the behest of an old hand.
Even then
It must have been the elderly
Who cared about posterity.
The birth of the twelfth child!
The marriage of a spinster daughter!
The death of a Great Aunt!
Recorded but once.
But for all time.
And, as they wrote
They saw themselves mirroring
The Hand of God himself,
Who was, at that moment,
Keeping his own records.
It said so
In The Good Book.

1 comment:

Geoff Maritz said...

Even living on a beautiful farm as I do can be very isolating. I hate the weekends.
One thing I have discovered while searching through second-hand book shops is you NEVER can find second-hand Bibles.