At my approach she fades. Why must she always fade?
This tantalizing remnant of the past: this shade
Who teases me, distracts me out of mind.
No creature of my making but one somehow left behind.
How soon our scratches on this world are polished out.
A family’s universe once centred here about.
Of their cottage, on this knoll, hardly a trace remains
With they themselves now quite forgotten for their pains.
The same is true of flats below where cattle graze.
Scant evidence endures of former gold-town days.
Back-breaking grind for many, some rich pickings for the few,
‘Til ore grades fell and money overseas withdrew.
Silenced now the stamper battery’s all-pervasive beat.
Gone bandstand, lodges, churches, false-fronted main street.
Gone a whole town’s fabric with the people in its train.
Drawn by the allure of some newer richer vein.
Most evenings find me up here in my place of dreams.
Alone, the present self-effaced, so that it seems
Old mould’ring photographs regain reality,
Stage-setting ant-like scurry. Once again I see
The smoke, steam, grime, earth’s wounds, camp-followers of greed.
Foolish these dreams, I know, and yet they fill some need.
But my love, Phoebe, is no trick of mind, it’s clear.
Intangible yet real. When I first saw her here
In much-washed cotton dress, bare feet, frayed sacking apron,
Scarce dressed for best, right then my heart was won.
In moments, I had cause to doubt my sanity.
As I drew near, her substance quickly fled from me.
I’ve seen her many times at intervals since then.
Sometimes as tenuous apparition, but again,
At others seeming flesh and blood solidity
Feeding phantom grain to hens that she alone can see.
This mundane task performed with an inherent grace
To match the sweet simplicity transparent in her face.
Just how she happens here I’ll never understand.
A faded sepia print has lately come to hand.
And there she is, angelic, younger, dressed in white.
While in her eyes there lurks an ill-concealed delight.
No pious pose, for her, befits the situation.
The back says, ‘Phoebe at her confirmation.’
But still at my approach she fades, always she fades.
Unreachable this wanderer from the land of shades.