I wrote this poem on a short break to Shropshire. I was inspired by an old friend who really liked to wander through the hills and valleys, drinking from streams, eating berries and being one with the earth.
Land For Ghosts (or Terra Infirma)
This is the place where new ghosts lie,
Where they sleep and croon, some roll and sigh.
On a wizened path near an old beehive
Where stings lurk like old jacknives
Is a fertile land where their essence thrives.
This is the place where old ghosts lie
In leaves and blades, cold rains from black skies.
In fields of wheat or hay, barley or rye.
In dust and air and petals from on high.
Trapped in hollow mine where they cannot die.
This is the place where lost ghosts breathe
Carving out base rhythms that fresh tides weave.
While creatures of bank and rock stress, heave.
This is the truth though you refuse to believe
That this land is theirs, they will never leave.
This land, this earth, that creek, this berth.
By clear dew, dark silt, and all nooks of hidden worth.
Where their quiet eyes dip and dive,
A soulless country where grey tongues tithe
Paying debts to a black sickle or scythe.
Who dares to say this land isn’t alive?
© 2011 Elizabeth Amisu