“The past is a dram” the old man said,
poured himself a drink
and told of a childhood he had invented,
a paradise, a meadow land of long summers
and winters white and crisp.
The truth, which he has hidden in the dungeon of his mind
lumped together with unpleasant memories,
reek and give him nightmares.
This he doesn’t tell anyone
not even to himself,
but I who see his shaking hands
and sideways glances
also see the shadows of his ghosts
and patiently wait to catch him out
when his loneliness turns a morning rose to brittle, icy crystal;
tells me the truth
if nothing else to be free of the chains that binds him to the past.