Now that it is winter,
the snow hides the past
once again.
The white crested forests
of pine, spruce, larch and cedar,
arch back through the shoulder
of time.
The cold is cloaked
in the warmth of fur coats
and the rivers are now
walked upon as roads
with mist from the words of
these men.
Pasternak. Pushkin. Tolstoy.
Gloved hands that quilled
the papers of
samizdat. The shared secret parchment.
There is blood in the snow.
Red
in the whites of eyes
that see
the dying embers of truth.
Shall we burn down the dachas
in Peredelkino?
What has become of the past?
Are our human limbs for kindling?
Across the ocean
the firewood of history burns
these men.
Twain. Hemingway. Whitman.
Take down the collected volumes
from the shelves of memory
in the library of our grief.
For now is the time for forgetting.
From Saint Petersburg to the Mississippi
the forests are being cleared.
For the snow is now melting
and the past is passing away.
For no good is found here
and there are no words left.
Mark Tarren is a poet and writer based in Queensland, Australia. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in various literary journals including TheNewVerse.News, The Blue Nib, Poets Reading The News, Street Light Press, Spillwords Press and Tuck Magazine.
