I believe there are good people still;
kinder, more patient than I could be, who ask
for nothing, but to go about their ordinary tasks
giving it their best shot, as you know they will.
Who, when a drunken evening hiccups to an end,
pretend to be ironic, hug each other, solemnly state
I love you mate. You’re my best friend.
The sort of people who don’t forget to feed
the birds, who plant the flowers beloved of bees,
who stoop to pat the mournful dogs who wait
outside the supermarket, asking them, who’s a
a good girl, a good boy? Yes, you are.
Who are more likely to weep while they are clearing weeds
from their smalltown gardens, than in a public place,
who smile at passers-by with open faces,
who put more than they can afford in the charity box
who pop in with cakes to visit neighbours.
Who draw the curtains in their children’s rooms,
switch on the nightlight, wish sweet dreams
and softly close the door. Who go downstairs
to watch the news and wonder what we’ve come to.
When it seems, on days like these, the poor old world
and all its folk are battered, beat, betrayed, do
what they have to; keep on keeping on,
and whether or not they have a god to pray to,
think to themselves; let the world be blessed,
and whisper quietly, beneath their breath.
Amen, let it be so, again; Amen.