And may be privileged to meet
The one who walks on soundless feet,
Ghost lady in the crimson blouse.
Perhaps she will invite me to
Her astral equivalent of tea,
A mutual, frank telepathy,
A quiet interchange of view,
From which I shall emerge to face
And balance roundabouts and swings,
And keep a guardian eye on things,
Ancestral spirit of the place.
The gardener or the architect
Who took no chances with the fates
And planted rowans at the gates
Did well to keep the evils checked;
Whilst I, whom History designates,
Will house and home and you protect.
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