Ghosts In The Rain

I sit behind my perfect window and watch them, through the ghostly mist and leaking rain,

Trudging along as if to some silent drum, an empty symphony, they trudge along with no time to play,

Silhouetted caricatures against the endless grey of the horizon’s ceiling,

Some hold umbrellas some let the truth soak them to the bone in their search for meaning,

It is early morning, they are on their way to school, this is rural country,

How far must they walk, do they have any choices and who will teach them bluntly?

Bright lights of the future, weapons of silent destruction,

They march in unison oblivious to their parent’s assumptions,

About their role, about the goal,

About life.

To my right,

Through another less perfect window,

I see a flock of elderly people huddled together like lame pigeons in the cold,

Far from lame they chat away blithely in voices I cannot hear and will never understand completely,

They wait for services , services that should give them just a few more seconds, discretely,

They know something that not even the meddling rain can fathom, something about the ghosts of each of us,

In passing we pass through things that seem out of reach until we realise that they have strangled us,

Those things that distinguish raindrops from teardrops, those things that confuse the mind and heart,

They need healing from the children that take hastened steps sloshing through the mud,

With nothing but their monster  satchels full of books, empty lunch tins and un-fearful love,

Taught to them by those same elders wrapped in wet blankets, sitting,

While the children  march onwards with the rain hissing,

Insistent to the last dripping drop,

It cannot stop,

They cannot stop…

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2 responses to “Ghosts In The Rain

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