Orbs emerging from the shadows
in a deserted barn.
How should my senses interpret
their presence? Trick of the light, perhaps?
Diving, spiralling -
surely they own
this very air. I cannot touch
such enigmas: these beings
from another plane who have forsaken
their half-sleep to fly, fly around.
Are they Spirits unclothed?
Bright globes of pure energy, or essences maybe?
Look! One is revealing itself -
facial features, with a goatee beard.
Maybe this is a voyager - even Sir Francis Drake himself,
defying metaphysical law
to return to his beloved home
and negate all known hypotheses:
a sphere of pure consciousness, his white light
fuelled by unfinished business.
Are these non-amnesiac fugitives from the Afterlife?
And why do I behold
this dancing solar system of Souls
who swirl like wind-tossed snow flakes,
hypnotically transfixing me to the spot
here in Buckland Abbey grounds?
The past, momentarily touching the present?
Now they are gone.