The Archaeology of Moments
Sun up, moon down seems there is a score of kinds
The light slants on the big excavation
Make a detailed report with sketches
Of the layers of events; polychromed tesserae
Cuneiform tabulae and leather, netsuke
Fire cracked agates, the fire stained glass and silver.
Hard work and at the end is forgetfulness
Misplaced kisses, a glory box full of mornings
No museum can hold all this, no vitrine
A sometime vault or mountain pothole
Some would call it fallout or detritus.
Cities conspire at the bottom of lakes
Misunderstandings and research
Caves of staring at the phone
Which on no account must be touched
As it is liable to crumble to dust.
A whole civilisation died out;
Holding of hands
The coalescing of fluids, hearts
We are preserved in canopic jars
A dry unguent of us
It is sealed.
Veronica Aldous 2016 All rights reserved