And I read you and think

And I read you and think
When our histories are written
If our untold lives are noted
In this age of evenings:
How much of that ink will spill
And go
Or will they write on water
And watch the words flow

Will they then apologise
For all that was lonely today
Will they perhaps reason
Why so many were sad
Why did all the poets lie
Why did the divisions die
Between what was wrong
And
What was right
Why didn't the writers write

Is that how our conclusions begin:
Here lived people in healthy times
Women and men of steel
And here began the end
Of all that we remember
It's official: history stillborn is dead
All in this excellent land is henceforth myth