Robert Verdon, #121, Days Which are Yet to Come

Shadows against the gullies dance

a burnt-out nightmare moon to

shiver on the skin at dewpoint over

contours like a grassy magnetic field

while hares leap through waist-high rye

by dry runnels of cold meandering shade

clearing limestone remnants of a city

as the ’roo is pinned to a tree by a sudden spear

and the doctors tell of the olden days

and the days which are yet to come.

There were great Ancestors in the Dreamtime

They would fly amongst the stars

and talk across immensities

They were rich beyond our understanding

They are all gone now and we are here

What do you think of that?, they ask the kids,

But we never know what to say.

Time is too fleeting to waste, we think

We must survive, and in our leisure hours

Play, or listen to stories.

But when we are old, we will sit by the fire,

Its flames leaping impossibly up to heaven,

Dreaming of the olden days

and the days which are yet to come.