Fruitless Labour
Like scurvy riddled souls that we are,
Without fruit in our labour,
We wallow in a way which is shallow,
Unmelodramatic and time passing,
A gentler pursuit you shall not find,
Relax because labour that is dig the hole,
Is like fill it in again,
Can be found everywhere,
And sometimes one gets paid for it,
All.
David A Robertson 19.12.19
