An Even Shorter History of Metaphysics
Two spools, with one unrolling as for age,
one rolling up to represent the growth
of memory (as consciousness), both truth;
no two successive moments are the same,
and Heraclitus’ river cannot save.
The metaphysics troubles us. So, see
elastic band, first singularity,
expanding ever out, a line in space.
Forget the line as line, regard the action:
continual, indivisible, as time
traces its way outwards, onwards, like a team
of workers laying tracks without restriction,
the tension and extension being all.
Movement is all: we are always changing,
remaining as we are a form of ranging
that gives the eternal lie to standing still.
Time is the runner that Achilles raced,
head-start enough to make us down at heel;
then limp no further than the final hill,
feel death’s cold fingers fasten on the wrist.
This poem © Oliver Tearle 2022