Silvering, by Britta Benson

Photo by James Wheeler on Pexels.com

I’ve been thinking about driftwood. Also, about aging. About how driftwood becomes more and more bleached by the elements, almost silver. About the flotsam and jetsam of life and that led me to the line ‘flot some and jet some’. The poetic journey began. Here goes:

Silvering

Ghosts come and go,
like people, really.
Let them. Observe.
Don’t grab, hold, own.
Allow for driftwood,
travelled, travelling,
flot some, jet some,
never quite done
and who knows
where we will land.

Ghost come and go,
like people, really.
Enjoy losing grip.
Gasp, wonder,
soak up salt, sun.
Spend, by all means,
spend your soul,
your heart, flaked, 
flayed, wizended, 
never fully gone.

Ghosts come and go,
like people, really.
Tried by earth, wind,
waves and flames,
our true grain, core,
our spalting shows.
We’ve all and always been 
somewhere else before.
That does not mean
we can’t go further.