Displayed like Insects
My own ghosts shadowed me along these streets
pregnant, pushing buggies, walking my dog,
past leafy gardens, green plumed parakeets,
versions of me in earnest dialogue.
Iíve paced out these years, measured them in feet,
hung my thoughts on branches, chimneys, hooks
to snare them, wrapped in napkins, ripped cards, sheets
of scrap, only to trap them pinned in books,
displayed like insects captured on a walk
through Richmond Park, my memory palace.
These days my ghosts are fading, they donít talk,
offer neither memories nor solace.
The world has changed, my past is not germane:
old thoughts dissolve like paper in the rain.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Nick Browne
would be pleased to hear them.