If there are ghosts, then I think
they are the ghosts of children.
They must be the ghosts of children –
the sounds you hear are a slap dash
of running feet, a shard of laughter,
a moment of song.
Children who sing.
Children who slide into small spaces,
who creep through the dark
and then emerge into sunlight,
children who dream of full bellied sleep,
children who can still dream.
If there are ghosts, I am haunted
by the ghosts of children,
all the lost children, snatched
by the ocean, left behind
in the deep dark of the world,
the wraith children who faded away
in silence. Only their breath.
We are hunkering down as Storm Brendan passes overhead. This is for the other Brendan and the Earthweal project.