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Two thousand weeks hence


Two thousand weeks hence

and the present a far distant half-forgotten play in which

aliens affected to be us,

will we remember with remorse

or pity

or with the pleasure

of those whom age has made invulnerable

our love?


Will you, the mother of a mother,

think of me one evening

when your memory has


better to do,

and smile?

And will you while away

a moment of old age

in idle play

with possibilities?


I see you now

looking on

while younger organisms

create and nurture and outgrow

all the ancient errors of our ways:

but for us (as for them)

our own mistakes (and theirs)

will have a majesty

that gives the lie to truth.


We will grow old

but that of me I gave to you,

that which you gave to me,

is ours to love and honour

for as long as we so wish

even, through the lovers

with whom we spend our nights,

through the days of success and failure,

through the filling of the vacant future

even, should we so wish it,

till two thousand weeks hence.

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