The Last Post
The flap is closed, the mat is bare,
There isn't any post;
There are no letters, oblong, square,
To open with the toast.
No catalogues from absent friends;
No kind solicitations
From book clubs (“Quick! Our offer ends...”)
No pension invitations.
No adverts for the shirts and ties
You need to make you rich;
No shrink-wrapped million-pound surprise;
No messages from Which?
Traumatised, a nation waits
For postmen and their feet,
We stand at doors, we stand at gates,
Each somehow incomplete –
Afraid, perhaps, that we have heard
The last, ecstatic thunk
Of mail. A tragedy's occurred.
Our world's been robbed of junk.
