Workspace

The constant clicking of black plastic keys
Like rodents scratching, as we stiffly sit
In silence, staring at our screens; release
Four flat hours off. Sound-proofed, fluorescent-lit,
The office keeps the untamed air at bay
Where it belongs. The only wood to see
Is desks; no green thing grows; and fleeting day
Is glimpsed through glass as trees wave helplessly.
And this they call the Real World – the place
We’re all intended for, prepared from birth
To enter; this small, subjugated space
Our portion of the riches of the earth.
Connected to the planet, we’re removed
From all the ancients understood and loved.

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4 thoughts on “Workspace

    • Thank you Charles – having been in just such an office (happily not mine) all day today, I’m in need of a heafty dose of ‘unreality’: sadly I shall be spending tomorrow confined to even more rarefied and otherworldly corporate surroundings…roll on Wednesday! N.

  1. The corporate world is really a nightmare place, away from what can be loved. As you know I enjoy all of where you are at in your poetry. Dipping into the real world with its freewheeling strictures that are as tight as the squeezing of a boa constrictor still passes for reality, the real world, in political parlance. Give me a kestrel in a tree, or a pair of ravens wheeling in their sky dance. Give me the sense, the
    all the ancients understood and loved.

    • I guess I shouldn’t be too hard on the Real World – it does pay the bills, after all – but I’m always glad to get out of it and back to this strange parallel universe I’ve carved out for myself – especially when I have people like you and Ethel and John for company in it! Thanks as always. N.

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