GHOSTS PAST

Ghosts inhabit now my home,
where once the fire cracked sparks,
and when I left,
threads of thoughts hung on to memories,
those strings that hold puppets,
our lives in fairy tales,
a tale that's told,
slowly taking shape.

We grow like trees from little sticks,
fill out, reach up, walk tall,
the sun attracting, the moon distracting,
day and night as one in the attic of our dreams
containing chests of mundane things,
their re enacting whole.

When far from our beginnings,
we count the costs,
weigh the balance of those dreams,
find solace in the contemplation
of what it was to give, to take,
to store,
until they have no meaning any more.

Margaret Ann Waddicor 14th December 2013.