The Good Old Days Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

How really were the ways
painted in poets' plays,
haze sunsets and blaze suns
set out in Cadmus' songs?
Plucked lyre, pluck's ancient lays,
hoar sages' interplays?
They covered countless wrongs,
misery of hapless throngs.
Past poverty dismays,
wealth tied to serf's tight thongs.

One dwells upon in rhymes
about our former times,
to which some turn with awe -
misplaced nostalgia! -
to comment on harsh crimes
on sweeps by Mr. Grimes.
We haven't travelled far
from carthorse to the car
for children still shaft mines -
few coal for railway lines.

The 'Good Old Days' it seems,
remembered from our dreams,
show slight reflection bright
when held up to the light.
So though now trouble teems
distorting climate streams,
as we are warmed at night,
asleep and tucked up tight,
dreams remain but dreams,
Reality's in sight.