Nick in the Rod

One of my favourite poems. The title comes from an old way of measuring the passage of time: a nick would be cut in a wooden rod every interval.

Nick in the Rod

 

Vegetation of my nation

Indoctrination of my station

Spit from the throne of Satan

Wash and cry and pray some more

Work and clean and still be poor

Below us the ground lies awake

Hearing every breath we take

It feels and lives and laughs and loves

And spiels and spits and burns the doves

Peace be to man and all his friends

God wishes now to make amends

Look down and around

And shuffle about

Uncomfortable now

As we find out

That God is real but our trivials and our lies

Will still outlive every one of our lives