Dreaming of the Particular Dead

It has to be spoken of,

not that there  may be urgent need

(no need to shun it either),

but I would question  the necessity

of haunting me.

Not that you threaten or alarm;

in fact the shroud of dismay you bring

in much like I shamefully felt

when you were physically here.

So much for that.

What you want is like a charcoal map

disintegrating in mist on a mountain side.

I can take chastisement with

the worst of them,

or the semi-comic mend my ways routine.

Jacob Marley, you’re bloody not, 

so don't rattle them bones at me, my friend.

But last night you went all contemporary on me,

ageing to what you might have been now,

the same sorry age as me.

The soft spots you targeted I can

parry with my practised mind.

But this time there was a still minute

during your back-handed visit.

You took me downstairs to see

your kids who never existed

and watched me grow cold

at the unconscious

intentional anachronism.

Door’s double bolted now, old mate,

so don’t slip past the gate.