It is a grey day,
no colour,
no light.
It is overcast,
at the behest of winter,
it is bleak.
There is no life,
no rain,
no wind.
It is dull,
people mope,
it is sad.
Uneventful,
solemn,
and boring.
We wait,
for the sun to shine,
or for the clouds to burst.
Anything,
something,
patience is wearing thin.
Day after day,
there is no relief,
of winter’s monotonous personality.
No colour,
no light,
it is a grey day.
Afflicted by the assurance
of tomorrow,
begets the experience,
sterilises potential,
and starves us of possibility.
All that has occurred,
will again and again.
Such a premise – not hope,
but complacency,
and reason to justify the past.
Today will always be
the moment you’ve been waiting for.
Time exists at no other time,
than the present –
oh, how the lazy mind
gets us every time!
A health complaint
drove me to the doctor,
who said I looked like a regular shopper,
but I swore – I was just a visitor.
Which pills do you prefer?
he asked with great assumption.
I couldn’t care less, I said
as long as they’re for human consumption.
With the rise of his eyebrows
and a wry smile,
he made me feel like a child,
but who was I to tell him otherwise?
He scribbled on pen and paper,
no better than a toddler,
understood only by those who guard pharmaceuticals
and look down upon the customer.
I handed in my prescription,
to a teller dressed up as a nurse,
though all she could really do,
was telly up the bill.
I waited and waited,
from one waiting room to the next.
I am sick and they sadistically leave me here,
to be patient?
By the time I reach my wits end,
the teller tells me it’s ready,
though she keeps her distance,
she doesn’t know what I have to give.
‘The goods’ are slipped into a plain brown paper bag,
they protect their reputation,
by respecting my privacy,
after all, they don’t know where I’m coming from.
I follow the instructions,
and take my medicine.
No better with it,
no better without it.
Lewis Walddren 