Old Ghosts

 

We are the children of Old Ghosts,

they wave their palsied ectoplasmic hands,

round our unsighted eyes, and whisper low,

at every evening, their ancient woes.

 

We are the children of Old Ghosts,

they spare no thought for things that since occurred,

except to purse lips worn and flecked with spit,

that never ever said a new or novel word.

 

They will not orphan us, nor leave us be,

they may be feeding on us - who can say?

We are the children of Old Ghosts, and they –

devour their young, if once they sniff the scent

of a new-born, of life, without decay.