Century of Sundays
by Robert Warrington
Since I saw you last
the trade routes have all changed.
Rivers have changed course.
Silt has covered the sunken boat.
Empires have been built and fallen.
Rain has stopped falling on the desert citadel.
Since you hopped off the bus
like a cat with a shoulder bag,
generations of pilgrims have worn a groove
in the steps of the shrine
and generations of their descendants
have forgotten where it is or how to care.
Since you poured down the street
the island has become part of the mainland.
Boundary stones have weathered and cracked.
Gravestones have become unreadable.
The white cedar had grown by an extra foot.
The white sand has expanded by a good mile.
Since you melted into the afternoon crowd,
a century of Sundays has passed.
The jungle has reclaimed the city.
The nearest locals are unaware of its existence
and who lived there has become a matter of speculation
for foreign historians.