In the silence of the room
a ghost may move without creaking floorboard,
or sensing the age and smell of old oak.
Partly open curtains let in the meagre light,
just enough to see the sway of trees
and the flitting birds busy in their day.
I envy them, free of conscience,
moved merely by instinct:
to stand still is to die.
And I envy the ghost,
who can glide through solid walls;
it is not trapped in time.
Only I am inspired to press pen on paper
and strum away, come what may.
And am I the lucky one.
copyright Francis Barker 2019