Day climbs towards its ruin. Houses
crash in clouds of plaster dust, drained
to a last trickle of their momentum.
Great oaks slumber in their growth.
Here historian is observer unobserved,
an other-worldly figure from a future
interested only in event, though mostly
nothing happens, and they never stop
to examine landscape's empty occasions:
birdsong; sunlight; how morning warms
to a slow drip, drip from trees, and later
alone in a cool twilight garden, waiting
to see an olden light from stars, to think
how time disperses atoms of what was.
First Published in Acumen
© Paul Surman 2012