I too am wary of past’s ghosts, squeezed by daylight into ethereal painted diaphanous landscapes,
and where equally pellucid capes waft in the nothingness of such a delicate dimension.
Sunshine filters through the interstices of arching trees – their spindly finger shadows pierce the throb of my ripened veins resting under the mirror of spider branches hanging lazily –
adust words tease the vastly hollow chambers of my heart and mind
whilst unwanted ghosts, these stark strangers, pass by me trying to scavenge my thoughts – thoughts once hid, but which now bustle briskly under this fair poplar – but adamantly refuse daylight in their presence
my muse blows timidly to rustle up my tired parchments not scratched since autumn opened its eyes on the majestic fade of green –
before it reawakens – under these dreaming spires, I will write a sonnet for her –
to coax, to not be afraid of ghosts, nor reconcile me with my own by her very absence –
me thinks I’ll keep it safe in heart, away from prying eyes and strangers’ judgement at least until summer comes again.
I see you, haunted muse come out from the shadows.
Picture: One of my arts/crafts pieces that I make and sell for my charity CRUK. Ghost peacock painted on heavy slate.
Azure lawns cry,
stuck in the past
like dew tears
on dampened stones.
the darkness can be still be seen,
of black grass
dancers mop up tears,
waltzing the air
with ghost like peacock
fans over their broken faces;
hover like wisps
of winter taking
one, last, look back.
where those peacocks
once ran wild,
their rainbow fans
since crumbled to dust
to cover all that must
stay hidden while
Azure lawns cry.
Corrupt hearts and cracking shins, elicit all that is bad in us, it surfaces in the night when death’s courtiers seek vengeance and atonement.
Spectres ravage putrid night air,
harbouring grim justice,
at their own grumbling, aches and groans,
their bickering and jabbering
among bleary headstones
where slyly they plot and gleefully
to repay their murderers
and savour their screams.
In freezing cold they’ve been pacing
these long ago hours,
stomping for warmth already dead flowers
as the rounded silver
of the moon’s howl dies down,
they shiver together their collective frowns;
the enticing warm soil, laid out below,
beckons ever so nicely
to the greying ghouls aglow;
‘On reflection, vengeance is overstated, silly –
do we really want justice –
on this night so damn chilly?’