Spectre

The Spectres In the olive grove I see a group print of ghosts, stumps of amputated boughs painted white; I look for a pen to draw eyes noses and ears, to bring life to expressionless, pallid faces. I have a ghostly photograph on my cottage's wall, it's from my merchant-navy college days, the group of smiling youths are all dead now except for two, we're old timers spit and wait. How young we were, 'here we are, life, ' smile, bitter regrets hadn't yet clouded our features; suit, tie and short hair, pre beat generation, our heroes were John Wayne and Edgar G. Hoover. It is almost unbearable to see them like this, I look for a pencil got to make up for lost time, redraw their faces and bring them back to life.