There are ghosts of me here,
and a trace of the old circle
in the grass my father mowed
so we girls could ride our horses
in the park. We reach the metal
gate that leads up to the paddock
and beyond, the house where I
lived when young.
‘I often pause my walking
here to take a rest,’ you say.
‘This road, this house.’
I called out once, at this very gate
to a God I wasn’t sure was there.
And thirty years later here you are:
the odd longevity of prayer.
1 August 2012