by carol ann duffy
All Days Lost Days
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
carol ann duffy, new selected poems 1984-2004, Picador 2004
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2 comments:
This is me in the desperation of holding on to the past as though it is actually who I am now.
Thanks for your kind comment on my blog.
This is me in the desperation of holding on to the past as though it is actually who I am now.
Thanks for your kind comment on my blog.
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