GHOST

I’m sure you have just passed by

and I missed you, in the shuffling,

there’s too much crowd in the house,

I am moving for now or maybe just

dreaming to be moving, I feel

reassured not feeling my own self

as solid as I believed once.

Things and beings are cast about

like slings, Hades behind the shades,

your things, our things, items

in dust and sun that can last

often more than a body can,

like handwriting, the flourishing

of a spirit though the pen.

Yes, they are handling with care

your cups, your favourite teapot,

the pictures with the ebony frames,

those above the sofa with the worn out

patterns of flowers.

There’s still the blue Aga,

too massive, can’t be moved,

I know you were passing near there.

I’ll be back in the summer...

no furniture? You know I don’t mind,

I’ll get a camp bed. I’ll be

in the kitchen, at the window,

with the crickets.

It will be just a short step

sensing the swish of your breath

and, filling the waiting of a night,

the starry buzzing of your outlines.

 

This is the poem I have, more than any other, revised and changed. In the years probably a different version appeared in this blog. Maybe it might be in tune with the theme David King refers after his latest posted work.