As youngsters we all have challenges. Parents try their best. Not everyone gets it right, no matter how hard we try. But many youngsters go through ‘rites of passage’ and hang about in the wrong place, doing stuff we adults scorn at. In fact generation after generation after generation. And shockingly its often in the same place as their parents. But hopefully they mature and become fine adults, and get the privilege to moan about the next generation, in a kind of pot/kettle approach. I made many mistakes in the late 70s/early 80s. Our getaway was behind garages and in woodlands but some have theirs underneath a bridge. Now that I’ve matured, Its my right to moan as much as the next 50 something, but I might view it from my glass house.
Underneath the bridge
Underneath the bridge, where the broken glass lies,
where the lassies cry, and the passers by,
with walking sticks, and litter picks,
listen to Stevie Nicks. Edge of seventeen.
Underneath the bridge, us adults scorn,
as a rite of passage is born, whilst the literatures torn,
by the girls and the boys, at the changing of the toys,
same nuisance, same noise. As if its seldom seen.
Underneath the bridge, as the darkness does fall
they cavort and they sprawl, graffiti on the wall
safe in their number, rarely encumbered
as the adults start their slumber. Inspiring another dream.
Underneath the bridge, as others snuggle in bed,
Its generation Z, being easily led,
in different clothes, along the same path that we chose,
but never disclose. Passing the gene.
Underneath the bridge, just as day it does break
as the heads that do ache, consider the next mistake,
and the passers by, with disdain they do try,
to look ruefully wry. Because it has always been.
The Mindfulness Gap 