Someone Somewhere.

Photo by Lucas Pezeta on Pexels.com

I heard it somewhere.

Someone somewhere, once said:

‘Complaining is a British pastime.’

Like queuing or casual racism,

Less casual these days, of course.

It’s a ritual, we all have those.

Created by others, invented by ourselves,

Passed down, and wound forward,

A thread passing through.

I climb out the bedroom window,

And jump into the garden,

Walk up to the train tracks,

Ascend the rickety stairs to the bridge.

I can see most of the city from here,

Covered with a dark blanket

And lit up like a Christmas tree.

In the solitude of night,

I can forget the dullness in my head,

The whining and complaining,

The weather and the grey.

Grey attitudes, grey thought,

Grey conversations and the like.

Inflation and shrinkflation,

Boycotts and football teams.

I’ll be me, alone in the night,

Complaining that I have nothing

To complain about,

That for a moment,

Everything I need is right here.