I am still here, if you know where to look;
face concealed beneath a veil of jute.
I skulk between the Shore and the Howff,
trading now in ghost ships and old bones.
My spine runs parallel to yours, curving
in the places where yours is straight;
my cobbled vertebrae lying in wait
to trap unwary feet.
You can still see my astonishment
in the raised brow of the medieval arch;
my pain in the cold sweat of stone
against your palm.
I am the date scraped on a mossy lintel,
the face stained on the church window.
I am the ripple in the ancient well,
the chill swell of the breeze on your neck.
I am the creak in the timber; the sigh in the attic.
I am still here.
If you know where to look.