After death visited, <br />they opened the house <br />as a museum <br /> <br />it was easier than clearing it <br />but as <br />Health and Safety officials <br />were not happy, only one <br />at a time, perhaps two together, <br />were admitted <br />by appointment only <br /> <br />there were photos of course <br />and framed copies <br />of the better-known poems <br />some ageing better than others <br />a scratchy recording <br />a rather musty smell <br /> <br />a few years after I died <br />I went back to look <br />but the house and <br />its predominantly green writing room <br />and blue glass which <br />the sun peered dustily through <br />with the hideous 1930s fireplace <br />painted crudely over in 1960s taste in white <br />looked nothing to do with me <br />nor the photos <br />nor the poems <br /> <br />so I abandoned what I'd thought <br />a rather cute idea of <br />being a friendly ghost <br />in my own museum <br /> <br />it just hadn't come together <br />as a poem should <br />or a life <br /> <br />but I left the laughter and the joy <br />for those who could hear it <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />(For Wendy, a concrete image)<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/0029-poet-in-a-wendy-house/
