Peculiar to each individual
the fog of the past: of a different order
from that experienced crossing the lakes in winter.
Any number of dates and names,
old coins unearthed, can't change the fact.
Photographs, far from magic, can't clear a way
although imagination leads on
to the nth degree.

Within the lifetime of a dog
clarity slips into fog
not just that
clear detail is the fog.

Well meant in the poem, small-print now hinders.
Dismayed, the reader skips over,
brushes aside annoying midges,
no time for the dull clunk 
of once resonating cymbals.