Ghosts

I pass the wind-worn sentinels of stone 
in silence: only my feet tread the path
but I can never walk this hill alone. 
Look! There you are, beside the peat bog pool.
Your pebbles do not mark its treacle deeps
and yet there is no doubt that you are here:
a ghost, an essence of you somehow seeps
through me into the fabric of this place
and moves beside me, sorrow in its eyes 
reliving endlessly those golden times
when all seemed possible. I recognise
your ghost as searching hopelessly for ways
that old decisions might yet be undone,
to taste the life that you chose not to live.
I hope you walk now, carefree, in the sun
on unfenced paths, untroubled by the past
but wonder if, at quiet times, you see
walking beside you in some sheltered space,
regretful in the shade, a ghost of me.