Payment in kind

Life and living

I know how it looks:
My riding the roads and
Walking the woods
On weekdays;
My chair growing cold
Keyboard quiet, screen boarded-up
Dust settling slowly on the desk.
But
Putting others’ words on paper
Like hammering bent, rusty nails
Into a rotten, splintered board
Is just a job.
The real work is here,
Among the tongue-tied trees
And voiceless flowers;
The wind grows weary
Of whispering to itself,
And the woods are bursting
To share old secrets
So long held in.
All this
Must be taken down,
Absorbed, distilled, translated.
A life’s labour,
Voluntary, open-ended:
Without pay or prospects,
Pension, promotion.
No kind of living;
And the only true life.

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8 thoughts on “Payment in kind

  1. I especially love these words “The wind grows weary
    Of whispering to itself,And the woods are bursting
    To share old secrets…”

    How amazing to think of nature in that way. A very beautiful poem and a very worthwhile cause xx

    • There aren’t many things left worth fighting for, it seems to me. If I can speak up for Nature, even in this very stumbling and limited way, I feel I’m doing something worthwhile. Many thanks for your comment.

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