Afterwards, by U A Fanthorpe

Lent, Day 33

The principalities, the powers, the politicians,
The ones who pose in the spotlight
Centre-stage, and magnetise us as they stalk
Towards bankruptcy, murder, betrayal, suicide,
And other traditional exits

The audience leaves, discussing nuances.
A scatter of sweet-papers, ash,
Smells hanging around behind. The audience leaves.

And in they come, rolling up their sleeves,
With hoovers and mops, buckets and brushes and Brasso,
Making it ready for the next time, nobody watching,
With small uncompetitive jokes, with backchat
About coach-trips, soaps, old men,
And a great sloshing of water.

This is where we ought to be. Not
Up on the stage with the rich and the Richards,
Rehearsing already their entrance for the next house,
The precise strut that registers power,

But down on our hands and knees,
Laughing, and mopping up.

This is almost creepy...tonight I was going to our MP, Andrew Mitchell's annual Lent lecture, which is held in our church (organised by the churches in our area) - and, right in the first line of today's poem, "the politicians"...! So, obviously, my photo has to be of him, which is a shame, because saw so much beauty today.

(Too much beauty makes me feel depressed, and tried to work out why today. I think it's because I know I am incapable of taking it all in properly, and so it feels wasted.)

Anyway, back to the politician - he is definitely a "nice guy", but a consummate politician, ie. is constitutionally incapable of giving a straight answer to anything. However, he walked to the lecture tonight, he is always here in his constituency, and he has answered every email I've ever sent him with a proper letter, signed with an ink pen.

But isn't this poem so right? The best place to be, and the most effective, is down on our knees, laughing and mopping up, or sweeping the floor, like yesterday's poem.