by Gideon Burton
It isn't all the constancy of change,
nor that the past recedes with giant strides.
It isn't time is fast, or spreading wide,
nor that it's hard to contemplate its range.
What's troubling is the way we rearrange
the packaging; we change the terms; then pride
ourselves the past is fastened fast inside
events or periods we've made unstrange.
The past is not a line, a map, a thing;
like people: known and yet much more unknown,
compounding with the data and the dust
of what remains and what the present brings.
Its agents surface and submerge. We're shown
what was expected: ah, such pretty rust.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - Martin Ujlaki