As I was ripping home from dropping a daughter off at school I couldn't help but think of the tasks I had to cram in during my two free hours and as I rushed towards the traffic lights in the car I knew I had a choice. I had pulled alongside a hearse which was turning left and I was in the right hand lane to go straight on. The faster route would mean me having to cut up the hearse and scream down the slip road ahead of them or I could meander onwards leavnig the hearse and its lovley wicker coffined occupant in peace. Food for thought. I took the slow route. Why? A bit of respect, I guess, but I also realised that rushing around isn't really going to get me there any quicker. I'll be in the grave soon enough so why hasten it on by dashing madly around.
I thought of 'Days' by Larkin (1922 - 1985).
What are days for?
Days are where we live.
They come, they wake us
Time and time over.
They are to be happy in:
Where can we live but days?
Ah, solving that question
Brings the priest and the doctor
In their long coats
Running over the fields.
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