The place I used to visit,
On bad days,
With yoghurt and spoon,
Is vacant.
The leaves are raked,
Into a neat pile,
By the bench,
And except for the newspaper,
Blowing about in the wind,
There is no-one here.
The river beyond,
Is a murky brown,
Same as it’s always been,
But,
Over the concrete balustrade,
On the sandy bank on the other side,
Is a briefcase.
Is it yours?
My name is Henry,
And I’ve been disappearing for years.
I can’t seem to find my way home.
♦photo – webstockpro.com♦
-evocative short poetry
Filed under: Poetry Tagged: afterlife, death, Ghosts, melancholy, poetry, thames
