Cold and dry blows the northeasterly this noon;
steady it is in pursuit and I am an ally from long ago.
My tank is running empty and the thoughts, haunting.
When wistful, why does the whole world too seem so?
Old distemper is peeling off the concrete walls
to reveal previous layers of painted character.
Are those footprints in the dust on the cement floor,
faint enough to question the integrity of the spectre.
A ghost of a past seems to be walking on the terrace;
apparitions seem to be dancing on the floor.
The world keeps changing and all you have is yourself,
once you are at sea, the only destination is the shore.
A fallen desert rose lies withered in this winter sun
curled up, it had its moments, before replaced by its kind.
A glimpse, I imagine of someone in the single pane window
but the image is dwarfed by reflections swaying behind.
Oddly, we seek permanence in an impermanent abode.
But people are needy and steadfast, they cannot;
adrift in the flotsam of a myriad emotions
they need support in the swirling waters of life and thought.
A ghost seems to be walking on the terrace;
apparitions seem to be dancing on the floor.
Moving we are, one by one, through a revolving door;
once you are at sea, the only destination is the shore.
The People Village 