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Sequestered Writing

Rating: 3.1

Horses were turned loose in the child's sorrow. Black and roan, cantering through snow.
The way light fills the hand with light, November with graves, infancy with white.
White. Given lilacs, lilacs disappear. Then low voices rising in walls.
The way they withdrew from the child's body and spoke as if it were not there.

What ghost comes to the bedside whispering You?
-- With its no one without its I --
A dwarf ghost? A closet of empty clothes?
Ours was a ghost who stole household goods. Nothing anyone would miss.
Supper plates. Apples. Barbed wire behind the house.

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COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Richard Ponsonby 27 February 2020

A dead child, horses turned loose, ghost crowds the asylum, where the mother weeps for fifty years, never revealing the poetry which could have been, drifting five decades over the changing fields

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