It’s mildly disconcerting to meet a person whose spirit has
been usurped. And after wondering where the old one has gone, it’s even more
disconcerting to find yourself being haunted only by its echo, and not the wraith
itself. It’s then that you wonder whether your own spirit has been usurped - or
has deserted you because it no longer finds a home there. It encourages reflection on
the subtle innuendo contained in that line from a song I’m so fond of:
On a quiet street where old ghosts meet.
Reflection turns to more general questions of time and hour
glasses and mortality and pointlessness. And then you carry on regardless,
conscious of the fact that, being a poet who can’t write poetry, you read too
much into things and it probably isn’t good for you.
No comments:
Post a Comment