The Study of History As Being Out Of Place

you cannot visit the past
it's like a strange planet
it doesn't want you in its orbit

the locked fairy tale door.
don't come to it with your flowers
laid on grave

its tombs are sealed.
we write outside it, not within.
it is a furled flower now.

there are records
but who knows how the recorder felt
writing it all down

was he distracted?
in a bad mood
skipping ahead a few Chapters

due to the scent of lillacs through

an open window
what passed for windows then
notches for necessary cannons.

the Canon a bit suspicious
eyeing the script.
while you rejoice in

the sound of ancient towns
the vino clear as 
the ringing of bells.

but you don't know the codes that well

whether the bells mean joy or woe.
and for whom, distraught, in a darkened room.
you will hear it both ways

and say so on your postcards home
to the Academy.

and the necessary recorder, who is he.
he's wondering why the leaves are so green this time of day
and will probably become a philosopher

or major in optical effects and rainbows, lenses,
the suspension of all belief, the tides of human grief

though he doesn't know enough to call it that yet.

mary angela douglas 22 june 2018