Paul Georgiou
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
nothing
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.