They were there before the dark edges.
They were there before the prolapsed voices.
They were the steam kingdoms
Where I first took step.
I saw them when I looked up.
They were the soundless architects
Of my waking and the rhyming
Nursery at sleep.
They went on their soft ways
From nowhere to nowhere.
I went with them, pari-passu.
We changed imperceptibly –
Gathering and disintegrating too
Slowly for the people eye to see.
They are still the ghosts of children
Sent from where to where.
They have no home nor need none
But the blood reflections of Autumn’s sinter.
Soon, quiet as glass, they will go
Into the blue history of languor.
(C) N J Green