POSTWOMAN

POSTWOMAN

Postwoman, ply your metier

from door to door and street to street

in balmy sun or when it’s wetter

in rain and fog and slushy sleet.

And leave your bicycle to stand

outside a local pub or grocer’s

except where things are out of hand

and thieves ignored by law-enforcers,

then you must wheel it as you pop 

from letterbox to letterbox

resting it everywhere you stop, 

which slows you down like when you knock

at homes that lack postal access,

or when you deliver bulky parcels.

Once, as you chatted at a house,

I saw your cycle seized by rascals

complete with mailbag. Luckily

the theft turned out to be a prank

by youngsters on a cider-spree.

Postwoman far from being a crank,

you tongue-lashed the culprits, then set to

your task again, a pleasant hike

because the man you were talking to

kindly offered to mind the bike.

Whether bliss, indifference or woe

the tidings in your missives meet,

postwoman, ply your valued chore

from house to house, from street to street.

In a uniform labelled Post

that’s slate-blue and whose badge is green,

in summer plod through heat and dust,

through ice and snow in winter’s spleen.

© Ciaran O'Driscoll 2014