I’m walking with a cat
in a fog-chilled graveyard 
haunted through centuries. 
This isn’t my cat, 
they’re not my ghosts, 
and they’re no more 
interested in bothering me 
than I am in being frightened. 
Their elusive, flowing shapes 
are wrapped in the mist, 
unreflected in the damp 
surfaces of stones and statues, 
as their voices are lost among 
the sounds of wind-tossed 
leaves and my footsteps. 
My ghosts don’t wait here, 
occupied as they are by 
inhabiting every heartbeat, 
every thought that contains you.   

(after the photograph  “Wakefield, West Yorkshire, 1964”, by John Bulmer)