Friday, June 22, 2007

negligence #1

I hear a chainsaw slicing through the breeze. Sharp against the edges of the morning. A sound disembodied from its owner. By a wall, taller than me, or a me smaller than the wall. They’re cutting down the ghosts in the graveyard, my dear.

The ghost of trees grown too big for their roots. Or their boots. Their footsteps set to disturb the ancient sleepers, grown mossy from too much dreaming. Chiselled names faded, memories ivy-strung and jaded. They’re cutting down the ghosts in the graveyard, my dear. And you don’t care.

3 comments:

polona said...

poignant words, jem.

dandelion said...

"Chiselled names faded, memories ivy-strung and jaded." Wow. You have left me speechless again, my dear...x

spacedlaw said...

Cutting down the ghosts ? We can't have that !
Great tiny piece.