By: Ted Mc Carthy

Ghosts are what we make in the mind
of townlands not passed through,
names like Clovis, New Mexico;

faces put on people never met,
known by name alone,
living and dead;

vision of rock before quarrying,
sand bodied, unscattered;

whatever never seen, touched, tasted,
never experienced, put to waste;
odd forms, born of a need to speculate.

Memories are ruins,
walls crumbling, foundation fixed,
decayed from first fusing of bricks;
confined without, impossible to restore,
even with ghostly help, to a former glory.

####

Ted Mc Carthy is a poet and translator living in Clones, Ireland. His work has appeared in magazines in Ireland, the UK, Germany, the USA, Canada and Australia. He has had two collections published, ‘November Wedding’, and ‘Beverly Downs’.
His work can be found on www.tedmccarthyspoetry.weebly.com