[Inspired by Goldmund’s “Threnody”:]
That whisper on her neck, shadow
pressing ‘gainst her skin, unseen
but there, lurking ‘hind a door;
behind eyelids, invisible in full sight.
Prickle of goosebumps on her skin –
morning, waking hours, and the night
especially, when house was still
but for exhalations of them, gathering
in the hall, the kitchen; everywhere,
except when guests came to stay.
Then, she was alone. Not lonely,
canine blessed, but of homo sapiens
the sole occupant was she in this place,
so old, so full of death. Yet, safe.
Safe, in the company of beings of mists,
of memories lived and still lived –
nothing forgotten, ever desirous
to share. They were hers,
and she was theirs.
[Copyright © N R Nolan 2016]