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Sonnet of Change

The times go changing. Fashions change. The ways
Of being change. Old credences grow strange.
The world is all made up of whirls of change
Invariably varying its face.
 
Always the novel things that meet our gaze
Are nothing like what we had hoped to see.
Evil endures as scars in memory,
Good, if we find it, as the good old days.
 
Time covers earth with a green pinafore
That once was cloaked in snow, and rearranges
A dirge out of the song I once lived for.
 
And yet apart from these everyday changes,
A single further change staggers me more:
Things are not changing as they changed before.