A ghost


I visit you, my ghost,
kneel and touch the grass
that grows above
where you lie sleeping.

Did you hear my approach?
Did my footsteps or my tears
disturb you or the cold earth?

There in that final womb,
where eternity incubates,
dug by men I did not know
nor care to, enablers of ritual,
rest two diamonds that shine
so brightly still
in memories of mine, of sun
and simple childhood.

Can you see the flowers
with which I endorse the space
as occupied by the loved?

It is darker and colder here now,
a world you would not recognise.
Oh, to have your certainty,
an absence of worry,
that lightness of being, in spirit,
which carries you like dust
upon the wind as seasons turn.

Stained as I am, I pray to you,
like Mary and her son,
asking nothing more
than to feel you, watching me,
to know: will it ever get better?
Did you leave the theatre, 
not very long before the end?

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andrew hinkinson
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