Farewell, Postman Pat

It’s time to hang your hat, sir.
Your work has come to an end.

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Harry S Alford My Grandfather the Postman

I’ll miss the hand waves and the bells
of a much beloved friend.
Seeing you early each morning
counting out the coloured cards
placing them through each letterbox
with a smile, wink and kind regards.
Rain or shine, you were always there
the glue that held the villages
together with paper and ink
and postcards of flowery bridges.
But, the wheels of time push progress
and you have been found wanting.
Time, she has made you redundant
and so Death has begun knocking.
It’s time to hang up your hat, sir.
Your work has come to an end.
We’ll remember you in our scrapbooks
and label you, a long lost friend.
 
Poem was inspired by an article in The Age: Are you ready to abandon snail mail
 

#NaPoWriMo Day Nineteen – “a weeping angels woe”

 

Alone in the churchyard I watch

mortals mourning in tears and flowers.

Leaning against a rowan tree

abandoned by my family.

Beneath my feet a girl is weeping

I open my arms and kneel down

In surprise, she looks up at me

screaming like a startled crow.

She runs back through the stone and grass

reaching out to her, I follow

She turns to me – her eyes are cold

and zap – she’s now in the past.

Falling through time – I am weeping;

my eyes hidden behind grey fingers.

Left within eternal sleeping

this is where my Winter lingers.

Goodbye, Uncle

We got the word on Christmas morn,

And they told us you were gone.

Asleep, at peace, with the angels

The Silent Night, your Swan Song.

So, rest your weary head, dear uncle

your work on earth is complete.

“God is good”, you used to tell us

Now you’re sitting at his feet.

Sitting in the kitchen corner

With your cigarette and smiles.

“Oh, My” and “Exaa-ctly”

we would laugh with you awhile.

I’ll remember your red jumper

And the coat that was too big.

I’ll remember your brilliant mind,

And playful mischief with us kids.

I remember the last gift you gave

Was a box of “Indian Sweets”

We all gasped, and gave you “the look”

But were grateful for the treat.

Rest easy now, dearest uncle

Your light shines on us from above

No words can describe our sadness

Always and forever, sending our love.

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Forgotten

 

One grey day on the Metro line

I looked upon an old past time.

Sitting in the middle of yesterday

a carousel that cannot play.

Bracing itself through the pouring rain

the tired horses show their pain.

Eroded down to their very core

their porcelain skins are no more.

Coarse are their once pristine petals

destined for a sea of metal.