Chelsea

There is a haunting in old houses
a haunting born of feet
that trod old floors
as though the scent
of all those stories lies
beneath each board
that creaks and tells of makers
and of those who dwelt
these London streets

Old houses carry in their bones
tales that the children
told each other, songs
sung by mothers, widows tears
and the long rumours
of the years but more
the stones quarried from the mountain
redefined still know
shapes of living things

Old bodies
retaining all that was once was
are here, under the floorboards
deep as tale
their builder sensed
but could not know
The broken window leaves a trace
of fingers that pinched
the greying putty, held the glass
we cannot see, but know

There are hauntings
in old houses, hints of the painter
chips where the paintings
hung and delicate
threads of stories traced on a ceiling
read by children before the lights went out.
These floorboards
bear the marks of cots
and cradle runners

The attic window
open to the wind still whispers
as in her bones
the old ballerina dances
a ballet long forgotten
in the dust