I have always been possessive
But how did it come to this.
Here I am with ten acres surrounding me,
Lifeless but for some fading ghosts,
The trees over there speak,
and so does the water as it rakes fabrics from the poor stones,
And so does the wind,
Watchful and booming like a real master,
Or may I say, a real bastard.
That is surely beyond doubt,
But they do not speak to me,
All I do is sit upon the edges of their conversation,
Outside the pull and push of whatever communication,
Which these forces feel the need to engage in,
Lapsing in and out of revery,
Playing like a purring cat with my memories.
Strands and strands,
Fall around my face,
Tickle my nose intrusively,
These playful woollen strands.
The people in my memories have changed utterly,
Now they stand at the forefront of my mind,
And I am mindful of their values,
I saunter round these fading figures,
With all the confidence of a man possessed,
A man dealing with phantoms for fear,
Of dealing with my own life,
The fact of it,
And of its petty destruction.