time does not stand still

Bare trees like skeletons waving bony fingers at the grey sky.
A Padre strolling ahead of me through a slush of Autumn leaves in the grounds of Newbridge College.
I hurry up to him.
"Hi, I'm wondering is Father O'Reilly still working here. He was very interested in the Irish language. He used to teach me and I'm thinking of establishing a group to speak the language together regularly."
The priest gave me a queer look.
"Father O'Reilly," he said slowly, "we haven't had a priest by that name here in thirty years."
He walked off.
The ghost of Thomas Hardy appeared at my shoulder.
"Ah no the years oh," quoth he quothing himself, "how the sick leaves reel down in throngs."
It's true too.