Uncle History is comparatively young
Say he’s 25,000 years old
Maybe more like 6,000
No one knows for sure
And certainly Uncle doesn’t
He’s like one of those dogs
Who turns up at a farm
Tail wagging
But he can’t tell you
Where he’s been
Sure he can talk
But its not much help
There’s a wind
With locusts
When he tries to speak
He equates weather
With sadness
Sees ice on the pond
As an illness
On a face
Planet of the Blind 