Thanks, Max, Andrew, Pat.

As poem, it's a bit drafty and ranty I know so I have since adjusted and
adapted, including, as Max sugests, an anecdote.

Then again

Faced with choice, which option do you run with?
Kierkegaard claimed you either do it or don't do it,
whatever the decision, you'll regret both.

Alternatively, you might feel sanguine about either.
Give it a fly. Live with it. After all, IRL, in real life,
there is no 'undo'. What might have happened,

the life not lived, lives on in a netherworld. Like this.
In the summer of 1964 I stood with Lynn Weavers
at the pedestrian crossing in front of Giles-Grigg's

pharmacy in East Ivanhoe, ready to cross Lower
Heidelberg Road. I had arranged to go round to Lynn's
after school. She hopped on one foot, then the other,

licking her lips as she waited for the signal to change.
I say it was summer but when I think of Lynn now,
I recall her winter uniform: light grey school jumper

above dark grey pleated skirt, fully pulled-up socks,
brown lace-ups, neat fringed auburn hair, unwavering
eyes, pert, serious lips closing over even front teeth.

At Lynn's, a concrete patio, shaded by a plum tree,
sat above her clinker brick garage in Burton Crescent.
I liked this region. I must have been there before.

But this afternoon, after pushing the red button
on the red and white striped pole at the crossing,
when I saw my yellow bus come streaming through

the shopping centre, I knew I could not resist the pull
to head home. I ran streaking for that bus and caught it.
Never looked back. Told Mum I had changed my mind.

Did not tell her that I had not told Lynn. Probably,
properly, I was never invited to Lynn's again. I do
remember that high patio above her garage, ringed

with a low wrought-iron fence, don't I? Plum tree leaning
over it? Perhaps I never went there at all. All I know is that
I feared that had I crossed that afternoon, Lynn Weavers

would have consumed me. So I bailed. Left that afternoon
unspent. Left Lynn in the lurch. I can never know what
might have happened. Probably absolutely nothing.

We were both about nine years old. Through the prism
of time, I now feel neither bad nor good about my actions.
But the imprint of choices taken and untaken remains.

bw


Bill



On Wednesday, 4 May 2016, Patrick McManus <[log in to unmask]
<javascript:_e(%7B%7D,'cvml',[log in to unmask]);>> wrote:

> regrets make a thin stew ! is that a quote??
> P celebrater!! not( celebater!!)
>
> -----Original Message----- From: Bill Wootton Sent: Wednesday, May 4, 2016
> 1:34 AM To: [log in to unmask] Subject: Regret
> Regretters pine
> for an alternative,
> better past.
> A past before
> decisions they made
> delivered repercussions.
>
> Regretters beat themselves up.
>
> should have listened
> should have run with gut instinct
> should never have done it
> should never have considered doing it.
> should have laughed at the suggestion
> should have thought about the consequences
>
> It is to be regretted ...
> Regretfully ...
> Sorry about that.
>
> Regret is self-sorry.
> If only ...
>
> Had they not met their future partner,
> had they not followed up initial attraction
> before partner let them down,
> before they let partner down,
> before they committed so much,
> where might they now be?
> Who can say?
>
> Regretters can.
> They'd be, they think,
> in a vastly preferable place.
>
> But what might be the opposite of feeling regretful?
> A sense of blustering sureness?
> Or perfectly sanguine acceptance?
> Perhaps it's only human to consider your actions
> or not consider them and reconsider after the event.
>
> I'm beginning to regret
> sounding off so confidently.
> This poem was going to slice through ditherers,
> lay waste paddocks of might-have-beeners.
> Everyone faces choices.
> Kierkegaard claims you either do it or don't do it,
> whatever the decision, you'll regret both.
> Equally you might celebrate
> taking either path.
>
> bw
>