past sits heavy on these shoulders
leeches from the fabric of the coats
makes heavy weather on the pedestrian precinct
yet in amongst the old burns the new:
it’s in the surge of the puppy on its lead
in the flurries of the seed head swirling up
as though earth isn’t the only place
it’s in the child who offers the wink
so slow so deliberate that it’s clear:
things are not what they seem
and in no way are things what they seem:

it’s going to happen any minute
altogether now and on the count of three:
everyone unzips their anorak
throws off the past:
it’s a dance routine they’ve been working on
the whole of the past century.

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