They were dancing to the music of time
in those days, gliding through the moleskin hours,
or so it seemed to us. Our vocal chords
broken now, each song we sing lacks the air
that my love struggles to take. Raking back
the sound that coughs all night: the rasping hack
that like Lear's hand smells of mortality.
The air that moves now through each air you sing
feels ruptured too, no chord without discord.
Each period of songs' measures is short
of closure when it ends, the tempo lost
that might me sooth that the forever could
be the effect of harmony that still
promises that love lasts longer in aeons
still to come. Now there's the saddest thing
in our song, that love has not had its fill.
We're old now, perhaps older will become.
We still can feel that song we sung: Rewrite
it now, with cadences rising that should fall.
The songs time sings are old words newly voiced:
"We're old, but in our living memory
young as revisions of the old songs sung".
With love
Steven xxxxxxxxxx
Steve_Bamlett_blog 
2 thoughts on “‘It was like everything you thought you knew could be rewritten. / like learning that time can sing and that it’s old and young, …’. (Brice in Ali Smith’s ‘Gliff’) What song might time sing?”