Third Rackham-Barnes poem.
Dusk is the best time to see ghosts,
when the light in the streets is blue
and deepening, and the sinking sun
draws the pale light of golden dust motes
after it, leaving the sky raw and black,
speckled with fierce sparkling holes.
Dusk dims sight and sound, and only
cats prowl with impunity, cats and the
white-faced ghosts of dead dreams.
I hear them when the doors are closed
and faces are turned to dish or screen,
the silence turned up high to hide the tears.
Dusk light flutters with the wings of
might-have-beens and if-onlys, do-you-
remembers and I-would-give-anythings,
tip-tapping through the growing shadows
and dead butterfly wings with the
persistence of falling rain, sighing with
the inexorable rise and fall of the tides.