poem

By 'ghosts' 
impressions left by previous lives – 
on landscape and imagination of the living.
The dead are on Hackney Marshes.
The signs of the dead are everywhere.
Rubble from houses
beneath topsoil.
The filter beds , a memory of cholera, death and technological utopia .
drifting through a dirty dream of reservoirs,
demolished factories,
sewerage systems
power plants
, and rusting barges.
Hear the shouts of long gone.
help reanimate their spirits.
please help them
Sometimes
a sweet dread sense of people
who lived and worked around the canal,
played here,
and drowned here.
Recently I met
a ghostly ghost
imagine me coming back to life
and heaving himself from water
evil dead who shout you fucking cunt,
sorrowful souls who search for living lovers
who reunite with their fellow victims on Halloween and dance in the Victorian filter beds