Living
in and out of the past,
inexplicably
so many things have died
in me.
In and out like a tide,
each tear
holds a tiny hologram.
Even this early
I am full of years.
Here are the little gravestones
where memory
stands in the wild grass,
watching the future
arrive in a line of big black cars.
All days
lost days, in and out of themselves
between dreaming
and dreaming again and half-
remembering.
Labels: Carol Ann Duffy