For Biffo, in loving memory:
A Small Black Ghost
How could I know a small black ghost
would haunt each shadowed corner where,
in vibrant life he'd wait for me
to turn the key to enter there?
How could I ever dream that he
would catch the corner of my eye,
or brush against receding heel
as once he did; as I pass by?
How could I dream - or do I dream?
Is it my grief which conjures there,
bright golden eyes alight with love
for just a second on the stair?
For when I turn, or fix my gaze,
there is no small bright ghost to see;
Only each ever-empty space,
as empty as the heart of me.
Nan Ford