In 1973
I woke up

at 6.30.

It was the 11th August
& a Saturday.

The Curragh Plains
were clothed in mist

myriad of cobwebs
adorned the furze.

The morning was a jewel
waiting to be found.

Despite the fact
that I was very much

myself
that day

I remember
none of it.

It only exists
as a diary entry

(that is forgotten)
that I eclipse

with writing
this

a palimpsest of texts

this writing now
obliterating the diary entry.

I erase me
with me.

I am amused at
my 17 year old self

bored out of his
(our) mind

studying for exams
reading IVANHOE

(I can’t remember ever
reading it)

a jumble of selves
a jumble of texts

the me of now unable to understand the me of then
even disliking who I am
(or rather was)

knowing that if we had to meet
we wouldn’t get on.

No not even
friends.

(“How could I have ever been him! ”)
I think to myself.

(“What’s become of me! ”)
he probably wonders.

The only thing
we could have agreed on

was the beauty
of the furze

and what
it meant

to us.

In two minds
about the rest of us.

Dónall Dempsey

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-then-of-me-the-now-of-i/