Progress
Wasn’t there a time when
All that adult talk
Of a past where dark skin
Swung from trees,
And ballot boxes beyond the reach of women’s hands,
Seemed like a sad dream?
I was a full-bellied child.
“Famine” was an antique word,
Rusting like the Titanic.
Exposure came leaking through the years:
New famines in far-off places,
Pictures of people still losing things
Like homes, rights
Or their lives.
I passed a family in a clouded car,
Their breath painted on its cold windows,
Huddled like prey in the sparkling night.
The children were sleeping, their mother wounded
With worry and regret, a battered spirit.
And hunger seemed ugly when I saw it in her eyes.
The past is a lens turned slowly,
So you barely notice.
It’s getting dark again,
No light to brighten some homes.
And every child will grow to understand
The past is a modern thing.
Trevor Conway writes mainly poems, stories and songs. He posts to his website/blog occasionally (trevorconway.weebly.com), and his first collection of poems, Evidence of Freewheeling, was published by Salmon Poetry in 2015.