I thought I saw the ghost of myself

as I was at the age of 27, 

standing up on a bicycle, peddling uphill,

long hair streaming behind her.

She smiled as she passed me in the twilight

and wished me a good evening.

On the back of her bike was

a milk crate for hauling things, 

the same as I once had.

She was wearing flip-flops

and a loose wrapped skirt.

I had seen her on the beach, 

making salutations to the setting sun 

over the sea in a reflected fire

of blazing gold and rose embers.

I hadn’t wanted to interrupt her,

or show her to herself thirty years older.

I was a girl who fell in love with an island.

Each time I've left here, 

something of that quiet, introspective girl      

has lingered behind and never left.

On visits when I come across her

she has never gotten any older.                     

In August I return in search of her,

wearing my oldest clothes, ones she wore,

worn and faded, softened by use.

Once again she and I are one

when I swim in the cove’s cold waters,

gazing up at the sea and sky 

or diving underwater to watch 

the dark kelps waving over the rocks.

© by Anne Whitehouse.
Used with the author’s permission.