Ghosts -- anna hood

As the first sun
trailing slivers of orange
falls into my blue mug
an old song shimmers
off the radio.
The melody eases itself
into that achy spot
I can't bear
to touch and although
I push it away
it catches hold.

I leave the dogs twitching
dreaming of rabbits in a blanket
of light, leave the house
breathing cinnamon and coffee
leave the still life
waiting to be painted
a couple of Chinese pairs
(you used to love them)
a bowl of tangerines,
the house too thick
with memories
too heavy with ghosts
of old songs
old loves

bundle into that old brown jacket
still kept on a hook in the hall
(do you remember
the one with a rip in the sleeve?)
In the pocket keys to a car
I no longer own, keys to the house
though the locks are changed
a lined sheet of paper
with scribbled sketches
of gulls.

Green wellies tramp the sleeping pasture
past stunted skeleton trees
past the fallen down fish shack
where the vixen suns on the roof
past sweet marsh grass
that elbows her way through
cellophane ice
to the beach
glittering a savage beauty.

Waves all white and glory
leap from the cliff
spatter Cyrillic poems
birds have written
with webbed leather toes.
Once a heart was here
scraped with a stick.

I wish ...
ah the hell with it.