Ghost-mists

There is a garden, grey
With mists of autumn tide;
Under the giant boughs,
Stretched green on every side,
Along the lonely paths,
A little child like me,
With face, with hands, like mine,
Plays ever silently;
On, on, quite silently,
When I am there alone,
Turns not his head; lifts not his eyes;
Heeds not as he plays on.
After the birds are flown
From singing in the trees,
When all is grey, all silent,
Voices, and winds, and bees;
And I am there alone:
Forlornly, silently,
Plays in the evening garden
Myself with me.                               Walter de la Mare


A ghostly little poem for what has been a very ghostly insubstantial kind of day in Suffolk - swathed in mists from beginning to end.  All Saints Day, which sits between between All Hallows (31 October) and All Souls (1 November)- and its hard to believe this ghostly scene is more prosaically known as Northgate School car park...