The Yarrow

Guided or misguided, we’re here in this space.
It is what it is.
Totems and omens, aplenty in this place.
It is what it is.
 
Dead ends and roundabouts, traffic and noise.
It is what it is.
Litter and pollution, tin cans and toys.
It is what it is.

Long looks and stares, as questions abound.
It is what it is.
What are you doing there, eyebrows are frowned.
It is what it is.

Who are you to speak, to voice your concern.
It is what it is.
To care for the planet, with heart and discern.
It is what it is.

Frustration, regulation, cut back, restraint.
It is what it is.
Progress thwarted, travel constraint.
It is what it is. 

A blanket of virus, knee deep in mud.
It is what it is.
Missed opportunities, dreams that go thud.
It is what it is. 

Sunshine and showers, rain and rainbow.
It is what it is. 
Strive as we do, to get back in the flow.
It is what it is. 

Uncomfortable being, a pain in the bum.
It is what it is. 
Praying for redemption, some hope to come.
It is what it is. 

Magpies, golden stags, offer a lift. 
It is what it is.
Droplets and downpours, no shelter a gift.
It is what it is.

Sodden prose now, ink splodged, no write. 
It is what it is.
Still stepping forward, carrying the fight.
It is what it is.

A horse neighs a whinny, more sure of the end.
It is what it is.
We wonder what’s next, what life to be penned.
It is what it is.

Car horns do sound, it’s time for the off.
It is what it is.
Acknowledgement of self, acceptance aloft.
It is what it is. 

​By Simon Blackler
Copyright © Simon Blackler 2020 

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