Twice I have walked
beside blue stones
where a breeze paused,
by the space of cloud and rain.
At first I thought I saw
weaving in a figure eight –
a translucent line of dancing ghosts
outlined by the whirls of moving leaves.
I looked for other mortal eyes
a witness to these ghosts
dancing in the daylight,
I only saw clouds shaped like shell-less langoustines
with the sound of passing time
collecting the precious and paused seconds of a life long gone.