I think the poem speaks for itself. And yeees, I'm feeling the "wear and tear" of the carer's life (bluntly: being nailed to the spot while not months but years go by, and one can't help but listen to the steady, relentless "tick-tock" of one's own life rushing by like over-wound clockwork). But we do what we must ... and sometimes we write poems.
I also have a great fondness for Robert Service, which tends to come out in my poems now and then! Nothing wrong with liking Service, and Kipling, and Patterson, right? Right.
(The image is from one of those wallpaper sites where you slog through ten screens of commercials to get to the picture you want. I don't have a credit for it, but if anyone can provide it, I would be delighted to add it here.)
(The image is from one of those wallpaper sites where you slog through ten screens of commercials to get to the picture you want. I don't have a credit for it, but if anyone can provide it, I would be delighted to add it here.)
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