Ghosts: Hour 23

1. Strange things bring your ghosts to me;
an early darkness. Gales.
The quiet touch of a remembered object.
The painful emptiness of silence.
I walk the yard – the fields less frequently now –
but I am adept; I know to watch and wait.

2. On a late summer’s night they come;
three small children clustering on the road
like berries ripened and fresh fallen loose
tumbling with shouted words and laughter.
At night, in the room they share,
folded and tucked in tight,
summer light pools at the foot of each small bed
and the soft mist promises a golden day to come.

3. My turning gaze brings more;
three small girls sitting on a cold, old wall
watching the road above
hearing a distant gate close,
then waiting the length of a breath
for a small spry figure to step out from the field,
stick in his hand, walking back down to the farm.

4. I watch you all, even in the moment there,
knowing I am saving you for the future
when I will create you from memory and nothing more.

5. Stepping down from the flat heat of the kitchen,
to concrete steps cool and hard and grey
I move down into the scullery
to watch her moving the sink to the cooker.
Washing. Cooking. Busy with her day.
I see her small, slight shoulders even then,
her narrow back; the flat shoes – laced for comfort –
and I love her at her work.

6. It is still good to remember now.
Though sometimes bitter. Often sad.
My memory of happiness does not always make me happy now
but I will walk these places still
and I will wait for the ghosts to find me.

If I am lucky, they will come.

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