Why we believe
(Or, a change of pace for the August holiday)
A working life
Out he stepped as night turned to day
Look right and left, cross the road and up the hill.
Right and left, cross the road, up the hill.
Everyday, the same.
Well, everyday except Sunday.
****
Then, as night closed in, back down the hill.
Weary now, shoulders hunched, face smudged with dust
Down the hill, look right and left, cross the road,
And the door slamming behind.
****
Summertime he sweltered in heavy, rough overalls
Winter months, the threadbare coat waved a white flag at the cold
But everyday, the same.
Right and left, cross the road, up, and then down, the hill
Everyday, that is, except Sunday.
****
Then one day, nothing.
Dawn broken, and the door still firmly shut
No right and left, no crossing the road,
No journey up the hill
****
Solemn faces gathered on the step,
A small huddle beside a dark limousine
Young and old, though mostly old,
Come to mourn the end of a working life.
****
But what of all those Sundays?
Ah, there was time well spent
Sundays were for believing.
Now the bargain would be honoured
No need for work in the life ahead.
Though thankless the work of a sub-editor be,
Full one score years plus six at the FT,
Yet through those years I've long admired
The pithy insights, crisp and inspired
Of Philip Stephens, a political sage
And commentator on our sorry age.
But as politics goes from bad to worse,
Phil Stephens turns his hand to verse,
And uplift do his words provide —
As politicians he continues to chide.
Lovely. How’s the book coming along?