GHOSTS IN THE GARDEN

‘O where are you going? Stay with me here!
Were the vows you swore deceiving, deceiving?
No, I promised to love you, dear,
But I must be leaving.’

What is that Sound? W H AUDEN

The smells that poison me now were then sweet perfume;
That fragrant moment, the smell of blossom, and the scent of fresh mown lawns,
 Polish and green leather, 
red box excitement.
The exultant whispers of Office.
As we exchanged our vows in the garden,
Flirtatious virgins in power.


The jokes the winks the silent ascent that promised so much.
Now folded and crumpled, a soiled photograph,
Mere memory.
What became of those promises?
 Of the pact we made?
Now in the sheet rain I see only the bitter wasteland of lost dreams
Broken fragments of things once concrete, solid, whole,

 Gained, it’s true, for nothing more substantial than a weak man’s 
soul.


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