Poem: Ghosts

'Gently, as if walking on soft grass...'

by Harvey Gillman 17th April 2026

Gently, as if walking on soft grass,
faint, shy, faces as of waning moons,
you process into the stable of my mind,
each bearing a particular gift, no not gold,
incense, or even (as for death) a jar of myrrh.
(I have no illusions of a peculiar birth).