{"sf1_id":1703893,"sf2_id":"k1VJxA1l","title":"The Past is the Opposite Shallows","author":"Rob MacWolf","words":440,"posted_at":"2021-04-07T06:49:00.000Z","tags":["Anapestic","Couplets","Hexameter","Poetry"],"url":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1703893-the-past-is-the-opposite-shallows","original_url":"https://sofurry.com/s/k1VJxA1l","image_url":"https://cdn.sofurryfiles.com/submissions/thumbnails/ab/b6/abb696a0-11e3-456a-b6b3-5c5ccfde92ff","description":"#22 of poetry\n\nLook, even when I've finished 2020's backlog of angry and depressing work, I was never exactly the most upbeat guy.","content":"The past is the opposite shallows of a river at flood to the lip.\n\nAnd swift do the rapids swallow. And swift are the tides that rip.\n\nAnd that which the past generations have builded on seeming stone\n\nIs crumbled in deep desolations, and carried away on the foam.\n\nTime is a raging torrent, a monsoon upstream somewhere,\n\nHer hurricane gallons plummet, she has sweat of the sea in her hair.\n\nAnd every single moment--and every moment is hers--\n\nThere washes away some important record of deeds or words.\n\nThe bank breaks up and it crumbles. The trees are themselves trampled down.\n\nEarthen wounds bleed as they tumble into the torrent their blood stains brown.\n\nThat which goes into those waters it is futile to seek again.\n\nIt is lost to the sons and the daughters of the swept away race of men.\n\nYou and I, on the present shore, must remember the best we can\n\nSo that on the other side of the rain we may rebuild some shelter again.\n\n  \n\nThe past is the opposite bankside, with the river at highest flood.\n\nIt hangs in an all-but-landslide, that will land with a deafening thud.\n\nOn the top a figure is crying, what they shout we cannot hear.\n\nOn our ears the thunder is lying. There is no way for them to draw near.\n\nIt is all of the direst importance, but the river yet rising roars.\n\nIt is pious and piteous portents, but the rain roareth even more.\n\nYou can catch, if your luck is with you, perhaps one of seven words,\n\n(And spend all your days in asking if you remembered aright what you heard.)\n\nEvery moment we see them may be the very last.\n\nEvery raindrop may be the one that topples the bank of the past.\n\nBut whatsoever they are trying to say is precious enough to risk\n\nTheir life in the furious tempest to time's cataractic rift.\n\nSo hear as carefully as you can the hints they are trying to say\n\nEre soon the river shall rise again, and wash them too away.\n\n  \n\nAnd then prepare. Then hone your voice. For storms shall come again.\n\nAnd not a one of us gets the choice of how, or where, or when.\n\nTime makes no rainbow covenants, eternity hears no plea,\n\nAnd, sure as the turn of the firmament, one day we must turn and see\n\n  \n\nThat the future's the opposite shallows of a river in flood to the brim.\n\nA lone man has made the crossing, but we are too weary to swim.\n\nAnd all that's beloved and hallowed, we must try to shout to him.\n\n  \n  \n\n","series":{"name":"poetry","previous":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1702508-the-sisters-of-vengeance.json","next":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1704011-the-starling-master.json"}}