She claimed she could see them and I believed her.
Walking in the morning mist we talked of Norman castles
entered the world of mill wheel and threshing machine,
petticoat ghosts in diminutive doorways, the polished banister.
Over the silent shifting Nore a rook’s wing
beat between the arches of a suspension bridge.
When the mist lifted, the sun shone on ordinary trees,
untouched fairie rings, solitary hazels, plough lines.