Ghosts

Ghosts

They said this corner of the park was haunted,

At tea today, laughing through windows at

The frozen landscape. One of them recounted

The local tale: easy where he sat

With lifted cup, rocked in the servile flow

Of disbelief around, to understand

And bruise. But something touched a few

Like a slim wind with an accusing hand –

Cold as this tree I touch. They knew, as I,

Those living ghosts who cannot leave their dreams,

And in years after and before their death

Return as they can, and with ghost’s pleasure search

Those several happy acres, or those rooms

Where, like unwilling moth, they collided with

The enormous flame that blinded and hurt too much.