Ghost
Life fantastic began at sixty-five.
Transparent by day and recollected by night,
flower beds recede beyond my reach,
autumn in every leaf tells defeat
and children rampage in my corridors.
The rooms I enter, I've been before,
the papered walls, the parquet,
hinges, windows and latticework
are as seen before.
Strange feet polish every floor.
The things I did, are what they do,
without premonition they move, room to room.
Detained in my nodding age,
they talk vaguely to my face
of vintage years and salad days
and anchor me with tea and cake
that I won't escape through the roof.