I have opened the windows to let the rain and air in
(although water was dripping anyway) and am listening
to a radio programme about how children’s playground games
travel across Europe and beyond; no-one understands how.
American war songs become cartoon songs, sea shanties
become nonsense rhymes, sometimes only tunes remain.
Children’s minds are beyond our reach, but there are other
flowers and birds despite the storm, though Christmas
has been cancelled or postponed. It was not what we meant
to happen but that is how it is. This is another letter to you,
whoever you are; I needed to tell you how it feels, how it is,
before the future arrives and we all move on or turn away.
Rupert M Loydell