It seems to me the sun shines on all men
Regardless of their worth in worldly terms.
The rain and all the other weathers then
Are just as disregarding in their turns.
If seasons do not notice who we are
Does life itself its bounteousness mete out
Fairly and without concern or care?
No, for joyous then would be my shout.
Many are they who, with little effort other
Than to do their daily work, achieve success;
While others, no less dutiful, seem doomed
To failure - even though they strived no less.
The wealth, the cars, the holidays combined
Are often used by those more fortunate
To set the standard and callously remind
The poor that they are profligate.
The employed man, busily oblivious to
Other conscientious men left on the shelf
May one day find the things he now can do
Are passed to someone other than himself.
Alastair Aisgill © 2008
First published in Echoes from an Inkwell (Anchor Books, 1991).