House of Ghosts
 
             I live in a house of ghosts,
          My times, my memories, haunt me like pipe smoke,
          Curling around my head,
          Pungent yet light.
          I can smell damp leaves, feel cold mornings,
          As I return to my youth.
 
          Old photographs, grey, frozen moments,
          Stiff poses in Sunday best.
          Not daring to smile,
          Sun in my young eyes,
          Clothes the wrong size,
          Just a disguise, for the camera.
 
          Weak light filters through my grey curtains.
          Shelves of dusty books, all read,
          Harbour shadows, thrown deep into nooks,
          And crannies. Wood grain whorls
          Around knot-holes in my table,
          As old as me, and just as wooden.
 
          Leaded windows cast surreal shadows,
          Tricks of the light.
          My mind drifts with age,
          The ghosts can take over,
          Or fade away without effort.
          I prefer yesterday, but it's gone.