If you turn from the midnight window, they
peek in. Look, all you see is the shakened
branch, grasping at wind. Yet the past will say
why stars tremble. You, when awakened,
see electric lobby doors alone open.
Does only coldness enter? Watch.... you should! .
Yesterdays linger, tangled like rope in
your path. I too view darkness. A ghost would.
Standing in shadows: vault-looted sentry,
I view my old home. She got the house. Sold
it. Now it, vacant but never empty,
will be torn down. If I'd.....well, that's passed old…
Worn-and-all-wrong welcome mat....how it clings!
Fading, untouched, I seem to pass through things.



Crystal saints beam miracles, intercede
so Dawn's the morning saint shrined in my creed.
I'm mortal, falling flesh, dust-bin goner.
Yet shine- sheer miracle! -bless graced honour!
At death-my poems may psalm- let's say they're heard:
'Dawn taught end-stopped sinners to keep their word! '

Glenn Bagshaw

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-mob-of-yesterdays/