Layered Ghosts

I wanted to re-post something my friend Johns Bates wrote, it stirred me up, and it may do the same for you.

Old Oaks.

Green tunnel over gray asphalt roads.

Warm spring day.

History reaches up from the rich soil and ties my heart

In strands of whiskered moss.

I feel the pull of time,

The past blending into the present seamlessly.


Last year,

Last century,

Flowing unbroken.

Island time.

Lowcountry time.

It may just be me.

Others see a place like any other place,

Like the place where they live,

Barely noticed.

I seem to see the ghosts.

Layers of people,

Generation on generation,

Wool trousers behind mule plows,

Bonnets and muslin,

Fedoras and starched white shirts.

Old ghosts and new,

Like paintings on glass,

Layered one on another.

All of it,

The constant, persistent life of it,

Pulls on me,

Connects me,

We take our place as tomorrows ghosts.

Old oaks

To acorns,

To saplings,

To old oaks and

Green tunnels over gray asphalt.

You can see more of  John’s work here, I would encourage you to leave a comment, and check his writing out!


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