A shadow’s clear face –
is that my haunted muse?
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.