An archeologist will tell you that
Disguising holes is just impossible.
The buildings and the cities disappear.
The walls and ceilings are the first to go
And even when the walls are built of stone
They soon are gone. There’s nothing left of Troy
Or Ithaca except a poet’s words
And holes and trenches. Only they remain;
Mute testimony filled by sand and time.
A puzzle, all that’s left of people’s hopes,
And laughter, struggles, pain, desires, fears.
I have my own abandoned hole that I
Am slowly filling in. It was to be
A Scottish loch with Nessie hiding in
The reeds. And then I planned to have a pool
I could have stolen from the gardens of
Versailles. And then a quiet pool designed
For contemplation. A reflecting pool.
An aquaculture center filled with perch,
And trout, and salmon. Or a swimming hole
For acting like a kid on summer days.
A home for pirate ships. The Amazon
where enemies will disappear for good.
But soon it will be gone. If there’s a dig
A hundred or a thousand years from now,
The archeologists will simply find
A filled in hole and wonder why it’s there,
And what its purpose was. They will not find
The lost, forgotten, and abandoned dreams.