Village Ghosts

These days I walk the lanes slowly
for fear of waking the memory ghosts
that sleep behind the russet stones.

“listen do you want to know a secret”

They slumber still, these long years
a dormant cast, museum exhibits,
faces that only I can see, waiting for me.

“every time that you walk in the room”

Here’s Mike the half-wit, a pensioner now
still imprisoned by the peeling garden gate
a Zimmer has replaced his un-kicked shiny football,
callously, as boys we would make him laugh
safely knowing he would wet himself.

“first there were heartaches, then there were tears”

Now careworn, June scurries by shepherding grandchildren
apologetic smile, no recognition,
hardly surprising after fifty years,
we were lovers at fifteen and
how I ached to breach her skin-tight white jeans.

“don’t let on, she doesn’t love me now”

But there’s blood on the road, two lie dead
Mr phone box Gibson, couldn’t ever pass a button B,
killed walking out behind a bus
and old Mrs York, my best mate’s Grandma,
carrying her ale jug and tea towel into eternity
splashed on the bonnet of a speeding Morgan.

“when I’m in your arms, nothing seems to matter”

These days I walk the lanes slowly
there is too much to see

© Graham Sherwood 01/2017