Ghost Town
by Emily Gingrich
Birches branch through phantom roofs above the cracked foundations
Where moss makes patient conquest of the ruins of our creations,
And halves of soaring arches reach for days gone dark behind them—
But shattered bits of history are there if you can find them.
Bits of broken windows, scraps of pretty willowware,
The bottom of a wine-jug, dusty memories in the air.
I wish there was a time-warp train; I’d go, no hesitation;
Instead, I’ll raise the walls, translucent, by imagination.
Town has morphed to forest; in that fire, not much could last,
And only greyish basement walls trace blueprints of the past.
The quiet, weedy docksides stretch asleep beside the bay
And dream of ships from older years that long since sailed away.
Emily is glad to live in Ontario among the trees—following Jesus, weaving words, and having adventures.
Photography by Kenneth Godoy