THOSE GHOSTS

 

You can't seal up death

despite the rituals,

it abides in tobacco 

pouches and old armchairs

and abandoned shoes

worn once to tread

the winding alleys 

of this town.

 

In sleek black cars

and creaking wardrobes

with their mothball smells,

in distant excursions

recalled on paper scraps

that fall by chance

from picture frames.

 

You can't bury the past

its ghosts haunt

the edges of today,

persist in shadows

that linger a moment

too long when you drift

into that room with

your thoughts elsewhere.

 

The Cabinet of Heed, issue 26. The Chief Polisher - Simon Webster.