Edwin Brock

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5.00(1 votes)

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The Ghost Dancer

5.00   (2 votes)

It is surprising to be here, now,

among these people at the end.

Far way, or so it seems, from

anywhere where anything happened.

The tiny river Tas drags its heels

past our windows, barely able

to push aside the willowherb and reeds.

The swans have flown to deeper water

and one pike has cleared the pond.

Yet it has happened to someone,

as surely as the ghost we saw

that wild autumn evening

dancing downhill beside

my father's grave. It was more real

than any question or belief,

more substantial.

I can still feel the wind in the trees

and the unaccountable silence

waving us away.

 

None of us wants less than this:

looking over the strands

of history

to one moment of memory

recalled in love.

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