Junk mail fail isn’t worth those trees

Ah good! I hear the Postie. I hurry to the door To pick up all the mail That’s fallen on the floor. Perhaps there’ll be a letter From my pen friend, far away. Perhaps a shiny postcard From my niece on holiday. The envelope is very large, It is addressed to me. Just what the contents will reveal I cannot wait to see. It’s just a coloured catalogue, With gadgets aimed to please. It seems that if I buy a few I’ll have a ‘life of ease’. There are solar lights and spectacles And garden tools and hoses, With pots and pans and kitchen mats And stuff for runny noses. I quickly flip the pages, In case there’s something new.

I simply do not have the time To sit and look it through. The next thing that I open, Contains a heartfelt plea To make a contribution To a wildlife charity. It pictures orphaned elephants And monkeys looking sad. It seems they need protection From people who are bad. Another brochure shows me If I act without delay, I can have a brand new shower Installed within a day. And then there is an advert For an orthopaedic bed. Or maybe, as I’m elderly, A special chair instead. Another letter tells me that I can’t afford to wait. I must ensure I write my will Before it is too late. There is no special letter. Or a postcard from abroad. No missive that’s handwritten Addressed to ‘Mrs Ward’. I pick up all that paper And though it seems a sin. I scrunch it all together And throw it in the bin. (Recycling, of course).

Greta Ward, Hayling Island, Hants.