Expecting no less

Than the best.

How simple the world would be,

If we, like birds building nests

Or animals, langorously, grazing under a tree,

Expected nothing,

Except the taste of new grass

Or the cheeping of contented fledglings.

But we create a world of terrors,

Where we should be building a universe of hope.

And yet the world is not so really.

Usually its just a peaceful pool

of similar daily chores and small treats.

Sometimes it’s a waterfall of joy and excitment

And wonder and completeness.

Very occasionally its a black torrent

of failure, and disaster and hopelessness

And then its a pool again.

But do we wake in the night,

And imagine the contented pool?

Do we wake breathless with joy

And imagine the waterfall?

No, we bathe in that black torrent,

The dark future that will, most infrequently

Be realised.

If we were to live,

Like the birds and the antelope,

With the joy of the moment,

The coffee and toast,

The laughter round the braai fire,

The simple pleasures of our daily chores,

How much less painful our lives would be.

It we woke in the night,

Imagining the waterfall

of success and hope and bright drops

of future achievements,

How joyful our lives would be.

Would the dark torrents,

Ever come again?

And if they did, could we magic them away.

With our placid and peaceful thoughts.

 

 

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