Always tomorrow - H'work for w/e 1.3.16
Posted: Tue Feb 16, 2016 12:47 pm
ALWAYS TOMORROW ... Maureen Clifford © The #Scribbly Bark Poet
At the end of the day there were no red flowers waiting
and no bright lights shining, no table for two.
Just a hole in his pocket as big as tomorrow
through which his loose change and his dreams had slipped through.
He was always the first one in line at the dockyards
his cloth cap in hand and his boots patched and worn.
But the foreman it seemed always passed this bloke over
as being too scrawny or not 'native-born'.
Oh his accent was Irish there was no mistaking
the brogue and the lilt from the green hills near Larne
and his blood was the blood of Kings and of Vikings,
his heritage proud from the day he was born.
But here he was no-one, just one among many
a man seeking work to sustain hearth and home
and though living was hard and not for the feint hearted
he had the tenacity of standing stones.
He'd hope for tomorrow and hope for the future
His home now was here and to it he'd be true.
He would never look back, he'd left behind the troubles
and there was one last thing he knew he must do.
He walked the dirt road that straggled from the city,
rejoiced in the sunlight, the birds and the view
and he gathered the wild rose, bottlebrush, gold wattle
sweet flowers, for his lady - his love to renew.
At the end of the day there were no red flowers waiting
and no bright lights shining, no table for two.
Just a hole in his pocket as big as tomorrow
through which his loose change and his dreams had slipped through.
He was always the first one in line at the dockyards
his cloth cap in hand and his boots patched and worn.
But the foreman it seemed always passed this bloke over
as being too scrawny or not 'native-born'.
Oh his accent was Irish there was no mistaking
the brogue and the lilt from the green hills near Larne
and his blood was the blood of Kings and of Vikings,
his heritage proud from the day he was born.
But here he was no-one, just one among many
a man seeking work to sustain hearth and home
and though living was hard and not for the feint hearted
he had the tenacity of standing stones.
He'd hope for tomorrow and hope for the future
His home now was here and to it he'd be true.
He would never look back, he'd left behind the troubles
and there was one last thing he knew he must do.
He walked the dirt road that straggled from the city,
rejoiced in the sunlight, the birds and the view
and he gathered the wild rose, bottlebrush, gold wattle
sweet flowers, for his lady - his love to renew.
