The post is late. I think of Auden’s line -
For who can bear to feel
himself forgotten? -
beyond unbeatable (Just clip and sign!)
cheap loans, and credit; sales of cut-price cotton;
new gas suppliers; yet more desperate calls
for charity. I’m sure they won’t desert
my small suppor - reminders, bills and all
the get-rich-quick schemes, every one a cert.
The morning drifts, slips sideways, shapeless, dull.
Forgotten. Not a letter from a friend;
no postcards; no one waving back; a lull
in cheerfulness. First shadow of the end.
The day’s washed out. On such a little thing
this broken ship has foundered on the rocks.
The postman’s late - there’s nothing he can bring.
And then a rattling snap: the letter box.
D. A. Prince
If you have any comments on this poem, D. A. Prince would
be pleased to hear from you.