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.
I’ve 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 don’t talk,
offer neither memories nor solace.
The world has changed, my past is not germane:
old thoughts dissolve like paper in the rain.

Nick Browne

If you have any thoughts on this poem,  Nick Browne would be pleased to hear them.