We're coming down the Priory Rd.
and beside us is the wall they built again.
The water's coursing still.
It's the limits of
a territory where
we aren't for ever, past
the bramble thuggery
to the clipped green grass.
The Autumn light is harsh
and nothing seems to refract it;
its critical movement scans us as present.
Then a few stops on
two small girls watch
the scenes recede, delighted.
The same light pours in
through their hungry pupils
and glisters beginnings, pictures bliss.
Whatever kind of ghost I could become
I remember myself a light starting
once and faraway and waking up
to the best games for making.