Steve Pottinger

 

 

Enough

13 December 2019

 

 

And so, it comes.

That winter morning when you wake

and find that you have had

 

enough.

 

You will give it up, you tell yourself,

retreat to the hills, the coast,

a cottage, a boat, a hut

some place out on the edge of it all.

Anywhere but here.

Anything but this.

You make plans to see out your days

walking beaches

scattering resting gulls

climbing mountains

to stare at far horizons.

You tell yourself

you will tend vegetables

grow old by the heat of a fire

lose yourself in books

and the view from a window.

 

Let the rich and the furious

have the world for themselves.

Much good may it do them.

 

There’s no shame, you tell yourself,

in howling your grief

into the roaring wind

at the stars, the moon,

anything that listens,

in finding solace in the bottle

or the bottom of a pint.

There’s no shame in walking

away from the fight,

throwing the towel in.

 

Let the rich and the furious

have the world for themselves.

Much good may it do them.

You tell yourself all of this and more.

You even believe it.

 

And then, one day, it comes.

That morning which has always

been written into your bones

woven into your future

that morning when you wake

and find that you have had

 

Basta!

Enough!

 

and you roll up your sleeves

and set to once more.

 

 

 

Steve Pottinger © 13th December 2019