Ach the poor old lousy old earth,
my earth and my father’s and my mother’s

and my father’s father’s
and my mother’s mother’s
and my father’s mother’s
and my mother’s father’s

and my father’s mother’s father’s
and my mother’s father’s mother’s
and my father’s mother’s mother’s
and my mother’s father’s’ father’s
and my father’s father’s mother’s
and my mother’s mother’s father’s

and my father’s father’s father’s
and my mother’s mother’s mother’s
and other people’s fathers’ and mothers’

An excrement.

The crocuses and larch turning green every year
a week before the others and the pastures red
with uneaten sheep’s placentas
and the long summer days

and the newmown hay
and the wood-pigeon in the morning
and the cuckoo in the afternoon
and the corncrake in the evening
and the wasps in the jam

and the smell of the gorse
and the look of the gorse
and the apples falling
and the children walking in the dead leaves
and the larch turning brown

a week before the others
and the chestnuts falling
and the howling winds
and the sea breaking over the pier

and the first fires and the hooves on the road
and the consumptive postman whistling
The Roses Are Blooming in Picardy

and the standard oillamp
and of course the snow
and to be sure the sleet
and bless your heart the slush

and every fourth year the February débâcle
and the endless April showers
and the crocuses
and then the whole bloody business
starting all over again.

A turd.

And if I could begin it all over again,
knowing what I know now,
the result would be the same.

And if I could begin again a third time,
knowing what I would know then,
the result would be the same.

And if I could begin it all over again a hundred times,
knowing each time a little more than the time before,
the result would always be the same,

and the hundredth life as the first,
and the hundred lives as one.
A cat’s flux.

from I Can’t Go On, I’ll Go On – a Samuel Beckett Country Album

 

see also:

All Over

What On Earth Are We Doing To Ourselves? (And To Each Other)