Curating The Clean Age Poem by Tony Noon

Plato would have got it.
How whole lives can be lived
inside four walls while shadows
dance uncontrollably outside.

Out here dark and peopleless
streets are full of noise. Drains
gush and the tyres of boy racers
squeal unchallenged by the good.

We are between something.
Our rich past holds us down.
A half ship, torn in two, the stern
safe and full of air. The bow, broken.

Thrust forward empty, it frightens.
Dreams scattered like luggage
along deep canyons to lie
unsalvaged in the aftershock.

We must either refloat this hulk
and anchor it or leave it.
Let the tides wash indiscretions
and curate the clean age.


Tony Noon