Sensing

I see castles in my mind, a dark corridor where I travel

I glimpse small bits of history

they stir something in me, a reaching after the past.

The fading wall paper, the empty rooms, the paint worn away on the stairs.

I feel, that if I sit for a while among it all

I will hear the echos of voices, long gone, and the tread of foot upon stair.

I run my fingers along the bricks

joined together with mortar and spikes of wood,

there, at the corner.

I feel the rough wood of the ancient house and press my palm to it

there is a sense of the person who carved this piece of wood,

I want to know them.

Feeling and standing, trying to sense those spirits

an elusive art

My awe and reverence are my personal memorial,

though others also stand and gawk.

It reminds me a bit of the fairies I used to conjure with my brother,

out in the quiet woods.

You give me that feeling, at times

Can history answer for things as they are today?

Walking through the silent somber halls of the ancient ruins

I slide my hand along the stones

feeling in a sense that I can pick up the presence

of those who have walked there before.

Another visitor

the ancient lord or lady

or even the wind

which holds all within it's invisible grasp and passes over all, eventually.

Fleeting thoughts permeate all we encounter.

we only leave a small sense

of who we are.