We are not a pretty flower,
Or man aged six, two, one hundred, three,
But a single flat rock tardy whistle, that,
Steps in before a perching bird,
We are not.

We are not the nonsense word, who,
Slinking out in wicker-wood feet, once,
With the wine and swagger of a gangrel man
Who, pats his breastbone, red it goes,
We are not. 

We are not the prologue, selfish,
No; we fill the heads with irony scents,
Thorning like a harp string, yawning moons in sleep,
Parting in for-get-me-not beds,
We are not.

We are not the decisive ground,
Or single tutting tongue, but, we see
Dust wheels, thin hips, lips, possibilities, that,
Busies our cadavers, sucking,
We are not.

We are not the favourite word,
Who drew a curtain on knocking life;
Or rolls a harsh dominion, bending in the rain,
But sound asleep, intrigued, lost;
We are not.

© copyright Eve Redwater 2012


10 thoughts on “Haunt

  1. That photo is the perfect companion, being so easy to interpret in divining all that it is not but not at all so self-announcing in what it *is*. Wonderful what some motion and the right lighting and a moment of brilliant capture can do for a ghost!! And I love how the way you’ve used the repetitions and the slyly secretive combinations of word and descriptor to lure us into working so hard at that knot of what-*is* as long as your haunting spirits insist that they are all about what they are not!

    • Hi Kathryn, thank you for you lovely comment! As I’ve said to David, I’m very pleased with the way the image came out, it was a totally unintentional shot! I’m glad you enjoyed this poem. 🙂

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