Tuesday, 9 March 2021

Mid Wit

I did not comprehend, in youth,

That your sort could not be my friend,

I found you wise, in search of truth,

But as it happened, in the end,

The bright ideas which you sought,

Were just things other people thought.

You longed for what was commonplace,

Mere fashion which left no more trace

Upon the slower, longer mind,

Than St Anne’s lace, mowed down in June,

Left not a withered stalk behind,

Upon the blazing afternoon,

Or clouded, hazy, summer day,

When it had been ubiquitous 

In soft cream clouds through all of May.

And things you felt iniquitous,

Were not the really dreadful wrongs,

But mere petty differences

Which sounded cool, in protest songs.

Or childish general grievances

Preventing any focus on 

Reality, more close at hand.

But now, too late, I understand,

That your sort seek and always find,

Cheap reasoning in good supply

Such concepts which are made to bind

Communities, ideas meant to act as glue,

Whipped out, slapped down in quick reply,

Not shaped by time and proven true, 

Not logical, or mythical,

But bright and fresh and new.





 

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