I suppose every generation
looks backward at what
was once. Backward has so much
depth, memory. Forward is a
short walk to an inevitable
conclusion.
The trouble with a past begins when
distance fogs it view,
much like a warm tide
moving under cold air,
obscured by the closure of
life’s weight.
Then confusion sets in,
the vessel has no purpose,
nothing to deliver, no charted
course, which direction to go,
what is forward, what is
back, or is it lack of
motivation, dead in the
water.
These ships that are said
to pass in the night
churn the water without
movement, their bow pointed
toward tomorrow, tied to the
dock of yesterdays.
It is as if the compass is
always pointing in one direction
but the engine room strains
to go in the other. There is
no use fighting it, no use
trying to change or maintain
a single spot in time.
Eventually, the fog will lift,
the tide will turn and we all will be
swept out to sea with it.
© 2009, Donald Harbour
Donald Harbour Poetry 