Going out to the village on an autumn evening.
I do this now and again.
Something beyond my comprehension
Takes hold of my legs and I’m pulled away through the air.
Six o’clock on a Sunday, the nights are getting longer, you know, it’s a [Wilsome – adj. bewildering or desolate or wild, “causing to go astray”, as of a dark hazy night] time, no buses, no pastor, things get weird.
Lapwings are late going to bed tonight.
Mosside. Yes, there’s always a smell/hint of wood smoke over that hill. It makes me feel homesick. It moves me to feel the past.
The road after is very desolate.
When the sun is up there are cows. Sun is down, I don’t know.
It’s about a quarter of an hour after Mosside, I think something is out of the ordinary.
Lights behind me, four or five.
Must be people with torches and such.
But as I pass the Lour Road I glance over my shoulder.
I can’t make anything out, no shape or silhouette.
Why would people with torches not have bodies?
Overcome with curiosity, I go a little closer.
And it’s like they walk in unison, away from me.
No purpose, no destination, them, and now me.
A ghost, it doesn’t stand for man nor woman
Nor pastor.
A ghost isn’t [heftit – adj. “nature constrained”, e.g. as of cows milk] with a body
But as such they have to live away from people.
But what do they see in me? Themselves?
Can I be un“heftit”?
When a person is stolen away with ghosts, what else is stolen away?
What would it be like, not burdened with bodies at all?