Song For Those Who Don't Complain
After Wilfred Owen
They listen. They do not raise a question
To the announcer's pacifying prattle.
Street-lame, nostrils charged with congestion,
They have the time to spare to stare. Strange cattle
Swaying with sandwiches, numbered tickets;
Patient to join the pay-per-viewers,
To ohwell the early loss of wickets,
A nation of shoppers, silent queuers.
On Sundays, when we get the mower out,
That ticklish sweetness speaks of ancient walks
Along riverbanks, with Grandfather's tales
Of Victory, of Glory that never pales.
We jab the rusty blades with garden forks.
We are tired. Not much else to moan about.