Middlemarch

I read because I think I should,

Not always, then, for pleasure:

It’s part of ‘being civilised’

To know such literary treasure.

So I embarked on ‘Middlemarch’

(George Eliot’s famed depiction)

Regarded as a great, if not

THE greatest English fiction.

My concentration span is not

Remotely what it was,

And so – an Audiobook I’ve tried

To listen – just because

It goes on in the background.

Several characters combine;

The ups and downs of people

All upon the social climb.

It’s thirty hours of listening

For those who stay the course.

I’ve six hours left, a day and night

have passed: the reader’s hoarse!

So many storylines combine

To chart the good town’s story

Each individual character, drawn

In individual glory.

Our author loathes the clergy,

Just like Austen, it would seem;

In Mr. Casaubon we find

A priest to make you scream,

Our heroine, Dorothea weds

This monster of the church,

Pleased to say, he dies quite soon

And leaves her in the lurch.

Her story weaves across the page

Entwined with many others,

The whole of Middlemarch is there

(And mothers, sons and brothers)

A mighty work it is indeed,

Imagination fired,

If you should seek a similar thrill,

Pray, wait till you’re retired.