SHADOWS
These lines – the chiselled shadows of words.
Consonants moth-whispered, vowels, lichen-grown.
.
A sunlit porch and laughter.
.
Light swings round the mountain
throwing a cooling shadow
across wood and field.
.
Ghosts do not tip-toe here.
As if they own the place, as if they always have,
Squeezing us between regret and reminiscence,
stained by poetry, small life blooming
on cold fallen hearths.
.
Their lilt of names and
who lived where
and who they loved
and who they hated,
whose sheep on which pasture,
whose son left and lost in another war,
whose daughter run off to a bigger life.
.
Pipesmoke and murmurs,
paraffin and oiled rags.
.
The long light stretches between October trees.
In the cities the streetlights flicker on.
On the farms ashes raked,
Cold stoves chivied back to life.
Small lives shadowed by greater things.
.
The chink of tools, the warm scent of sawdust.
.
A gentle downward slope into night.
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