The Ghost Dancer Poem by Edwin Brock

It is surprising to be here, now,
among these people at the end.
Far way, or so it seems, from
anywhere where anything happened.
The tiny river Tas drags its heels
past our windows, barely able
to push aside the willowherb and reeds.
The swans have flown to deeper water
and one pike has cleared the pond.
Yet it has happened to someone,
as surely as the ghost we saw
that wild autumn evening
dancing downhill beside
my father's grave. It was more real
than any question or belief,
more substantial.
I can still feel the wind in the trees
and the unaccountable silence
waving us away.

None of us wants less than this:
looking over the strands
of history
to one moment of memory
recalled in love.