This was to be my castle

Built from such ancient stones,

I wondered in my childish way

If this old house had ghosts.

Not knowing then that soon enough

I’d haunt this place myself.

Being not quite real, not quite here,

The quietest of quiet lives.

Rarely seen, sometimes heard

My presence barely felt

Watching their world through the window

My neighbours and their lives.

Their ghosts are all around them

In these old family homes,

Living still in memories

While I drift here alone.

.