There was no clause stating I’d have to share with ghosts –
those who were just passing through,
alighting like bees on a bush
before going on their way.
Mostly they don’t bother me,
but sometimes they leave a reminder:
a tarnished teaspoon at the back of a drawer;
on the flowerbed, a toy soldier fallen in action.
Lives wiped away
like mould that blooms on a window frame,
or painted over with thick magnolia strokes.
Existences masked, but not erased
lingering like the must of damp,
seeping into layers of plaster and brick.
Sometimes I think I can hear them:
in the ripple of breath behind the curtains;
in the walls that hum like a hive
before a frame’s removed.