I reckon ten percent of one millennium
is no small matter
at any time
in the history of
matter and time.
An eye needs to blink
And this particular one hundred years
has been no small matter
though only time will tell
how historians will
reason and rhyme
their way through
You, from your black-rimmed spectacles,
saw no small part of it:
matter and fact,
bodies and souls.
Are you, body and soul, anything
at all like
the heroic, saintly ghost
I’ve made from
scraps of hard facts and
memories? To be honest, I don’t remember you.
Both of us know (or do we?) that only
– At the still point of the turning world –
is where, no, is there that
you can pick me up off the carpet,
hold me, eye to eye, smiling I suppose,
and do whatever it is that grandfathers do
to make their loved ones remember them.
James E. Burgess – one hundred years old today;
you were still here, today, that is.
And how that if matters,
And how that if echoes in my mind like
footfalls down the passage
which we could not take.
by James Walton, November 26th 2016