The Whisky Blot
Where the ghost went, I followed,
through rooms and corridors
of my own house, but all unfamiliar
as my footfalls trailed a spoor of silence.
Out into the full-moon night, we travelled,
across the mists of lawn,
feeling less human with every step,
no mind, no body, no anything.
To the graveyard. Where else?
A stone sleeping in the soil.
A name carved with no other purpose
than to enlighten me.
A greeting from my own passing
hushed amid tall grasses.
No great welcome in those eyeless sockets.
A life unwilling but a death in charge.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline and International Poetry Review.
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