Donkey Work (Poetry)

In needlework, I made a yellow donkey,
complete with reins and saddle — which were blue —
when stitched and stuffed, he stood a trifle wonky;
expression glum; his big felt ears askew.

On holiday, I saw real donkeys working —
slow-plodding through the sand below the prom —
resigned to kicks and prods and tight reins jerking,
obedient, they placidly went on.

Whoever was responsible for handing
the jobs out when the world had just begun
was less than fair and lacked some understanding —
the donkey’s lot is not a happy one.

It’s known as ‘donkey work’ — such toil unending,
dull, thankless tasks that no one wants to do,
he has no choice; no voice; no protest pending;
no union to take his grievance to.

But he once played a part in a great story —
a moment when his burden was no chore —
he carried Jesus down the road to glory
and through the pressing crowd’s exultant roar.

He’s earned at least a corner of the stable,
a carrot and a manger sweet with hay;
a gentle hand to guide him, while he’s able;
a word of praise to help him through the day.

And when he’s old and lost most of his stuffing,
he deserves a sanctuary that’s free from strife
live out his days contented — doing nothing
while he contemplates the ironies of life.