These Things That Happen

These things that happen seem to skim on by
But, as they go, they bump against the sides
And bits scrape off and stay behind and lie
Like flotsam that is stranded by the tides.
It may be scum left round an unclean bath
Or sparks that flash like diamonds and gold
But always there will be an aftermath:
A tale, by many tellers, will be told.
And what that tale may be in later years
We cannot fathom at the present time.
Those in the future when the dust cloud clears
Will judge if there was dissonance or rhyme.
They will, if fashion holds, you can be sure,
Hold up for censure those who came before.

Bob Trewin

If you have any thoughts about this poem, Bob Trewin would like to hear them.