Busy by Glenis Moore


There are never enough

hours in a day,

minutes in an hour,

seconds in a minute.

The list of things to do grows

like Jack’s beanstalk

longer and longer,

its tendrils probing into the cracks of life, 

pushing them open

to reveal the barrenness inside

where anxiety feeds the soil.

Time is something that 

cannot be left fallow.

It must be used up,

drained dry,

every drop squeezed

to nurture the list, which flourishes

at the expense of the wildflowers

of home, family and self.

And if a few flowers remain

at the end of each day,

we douse them in the weedkiller

of guilt

as we make a new list

for tomorrow.

Glenis is a relatively new poet working in the flat lands of the Fens
near Cambridge, UK. When she is not writing she makes beaded jewellery,
knits, reads and runs 10K races slowly.

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