Cross to bear

We all have a cross to bear.

I can smell the aroma of mine

Damp wood as it struggles to burn

It feels heavy, but not all the time
As if occasionally some memory
Lifts the weight from my shoulder.

And then, without warning, 
Despite the smoke
It weighs down heavily
Digging into my shoulder
(I remember from my Sandhurst days)
Forcing the knees until they buckle

I know what it is now:
I know what to do
I know what it is
I know that if I’m patient it will pass.

But recently, the burden
Has seemed too much
Such that it would be better
To discard that cross
And watch it smoulder by the wayside

Until the rain
And the green
And renewal
And annoyance…

John H Davies
28th March 2026

Here be ghosts

 The ghosts here are kind.

I’m in an old wooden house
Flat packed from Birmingham, England
To Kenya in 1900.

Earlier, as I emptied the bath
I heard voices.

A conversation from beneath the tub,
And I looked hard to see where it was coming from.

Sometimes when I’m sitting
Reading

I feel someone pass along the verandah 
Outside

I don’t mind - I rather welcome
The ghosts

They keep me company
As no other living human
Managed.

John H Davies
28th March 2026