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ghost
The trees died terribly
many years ago now,
little wonder I felt
compelled
to erect my monument
to you beneath them.
You’re nothing more
than a marble bust
of some deity
no one prays to
anymore.
An apocalypse drifts
in on a hot breeze,
sulphur and death
gliding on the ripples
that fold the air.
Even the ghosts
of the
l
eaves
rustle with
uncertain dread.
How do I do it?
Spend the rest of
a life - that has
who knows how many
years left in it -
without you here,
without your hand,
without even your
ghost.
