It seems there's something in those final lines of 'An Arundel Tomb' that just won't let go:
What Lasts of Us
You were right, not love survives:
these wearing stones mis-represent,
memorialize faux-simple lives,
preserve the errors they cement.
An endless line with gazing eyes,
inheritors of these mistakes,
turn backs on chaos, empathise,
clasped hands inclined to join these fakes,
knowing but unknowing yet
the errors that the stone repairs:
that messiness they'd soon forget
fills other lives and homes than theirs.
No, what survives are prints we cast,
impressions in the ageing mud
we trample in. And so the past
descends with such a gentle thud
we may not know the errors 'til
our own are brought us at our close.
What others saw they see there still:
even at our deaths we pose.
No comments:
Post a Comment