Hauntings

When flesh was their home
they were driven, blind
to the pitfalls of words,
by a nameless energy
into fields and forests of literature,

They hoped
That glimpses of poets' lives,
embalmed in their verse,
would inspire their own;
but the searching was their poetry.

They are at odds now with the tangible.
Their presence is the chill in sun-lit places.
Their knowledge is beyond the reach of metaphor.
They have no words but their hauntings,
Darkening silkcotton and sandbox.

(revised version from Voices from a Silk-Cotton tree)