The ghost are everywhere.
I see them under the trees.
In gardens and ice cream parlors.
Standing by market stalls
In the village square.
Going home
to England
after all the passing years.
It is a haunted place

Yet it will always  be home.
The small English town
Lichen covered
sandstone everywhere.

Even the cobbled streets remain.
Shining wet in the ever present rain.
Between the faded
Old fashioned shops
lost in time.
On either side
Of the unchanged street.

A church clock strikes three.
As children jump from
The school steps
Like  souls joyfully
returning to heaven.

I see a boy with his scruffy dog.
They are happier than billionaires.
The dog reminds me of my boyhood pet.
A scruffy mongrel running happily
with an even scruffier boy.

It is only another ghost.
But I think it is me.