What are those?

On my shelf above

Those things that covered my feet

Those that came and went

They were left wet wet wet

When that thick cold fled North

Leaving me to swim with heavy feet

Then the wet left letting my dry dry

Out like damp linen on a line

But that wind is chafing

And I miss the wet that fled North

Once catching falling white palaces

They reflected and promised

What had been and what was coming

Now they neither come nor go

On my shelf above

They sit like something unearthed

From History

As a

 “was”

And a

“remember”