It was a strange day yesterday. I had a sense of dislocation and disconnection, as if something in my head had gone out of kilter. I forgot things all day - just couldn't keep anything in my mind. It was my sister's birthday, and I remembered in the morning to ring her, but decided to wait until I was sure she'd be awake. Then I remembered later, but put it off again for no good reason. Eventually my mother rang me in the evening to remind me. When I did actually call her to wish happy birthday, I was so brain dead on the phone that I had to apologise and go after five minutes of mutely listening to her talk about our family. Even now I can barely remember what she was on about.
On Sunday we went to Powerscourt Gardens and wandered around places I haven't visited in years - I still remember every inch of the place. I brought them to the private graveyard over the wall, a place I discovered when I was exploring on my own one day, when I was in a strange and exotic mood.
A Ghost's Journey
The wind was driving the clouds insane -
terrified shreds flying off,
glowing sun-pink over the pine silhouettes
and foaming into the empty moon.
We climbed the graveyard wall and crept
between the decaying headstones,
counting the years that have gone missing:
1843. 1875. 1912. All times as one.
Through a low stone arch, many tombs
like soldiers' markers in a quiet clearing.
The last time I was here, the sun marked me
as I invited the ghosts on my journey.
One followed, out of love. Now it was stormy,
and I'd returned, and no time had passed.
A new bench beside a new stone; statues
cut into an old sepia photograph.
I touched Lindsay's breasts and smelled her hair,
feeling the energy between us. I wondered
if my ghost friend would stay or go,
if this was to be an end or another beginning.
Her mother sat smoking by the dead wife's grave
as we kissed, and the pines shook and crashed.
All time as nothing. All the death around us
had never happened - just life turning into life, forever.