Posted in Truth


The supernatural world a polarising fog
of scepticism and devotion underwritten by
almost ridicule and not quite belief.
A twilight where reality dims to perception.

Ghosts, often the subject of flickering campfires
restless relics of doomed trails, unclimbed peaks, fatal rivers
seeking redemption. Easily imagined when told well.
Phantoms. Only at night, always vicarious
the haunted workplace and the revered predecessor.

She was twice removed
one before, the one before me.
No surname or title ever required
known, well before the interview is over.
On the first day her memory is waiting to greet me
an honoured guest on the tour of introduction.
At each stop tribute is paid – an expanding eulogy
perhaps the spirit world is offering a lost soul a minder.

Flippancy proves to be prophetic. Entry to the present
is blocked by worship of the past.
When my time has come and successor chosen
I raise the possibility of an exorcism.
A gulp of water to coax reluctant vocal chords
to speak sacrilege.
the removal of her name from the roll of honour.
Before courage is depleted an interruption
the heir reminds them of her as well.



Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.