The Ghosts of All Ourselves: A Poem

Hi there! Please enjoy this evening’s poem, inspired by a conversation with my former Scout leader, and much embellished by myself. Apologies for the lack of blog posts recently, I was rather ill and didn’t get round to writing, but being better now, posts should be becoming more frequent again.agriculture-1845835_1280

Stand on familiar lawns that echo now

With the ghosts of running feet, children’s voices

Dispersing in the wind, come on and play…

 

The fields where once we stood lie barren now.

A thousand mysteries lie entangled in a clump of brambles;

What was once a hundred miles of possibility

Is just a field overgrown.

There may be treasures there;

An old tin, buried in the ground,

Contains three old and crusty Werther’s Originals,

And somewhere in the soil,

The dust of a long-abandoned map, discarded to the wind

And unexpected rains.

One toy soldier, missing its left foot

Lies fallen on the field of battle, a losing fight

Against a patch of nettles, now spread,

An impenetrable wall,

Through which lies a distant past.

 

The ghosts of all our faces lie heavy in the air,

But, oh, isn’t the weather nice today,

Come, would you like a drink, we’ll talk

About all the ‘important’ things,

Until all the important things

Have been forgotten.

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4 thoughts on “The Ghosts of All Ourselves: A Poem

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