Wisps of Coming Winter
Ghosts’ whispers aren’t much louder than silence,
perhaps only as loud as the scratching of fountain pen nibs,
and their gestures are as fluid as the ink that flows
across pages of paper as thick as themselves,
Across land, across the English Channel, over motorways, up
over power lines, faster than a tickled smile,
or a falling teardrop –
then tap, tap, tap, raindrops on the window,
and the heart races when the ears hear
what might be the sound of spectral fingertips.
But of course they’re not there.
It’s just the ghostly wisps of coming winter
by Joshua Bougourd