Ghost Town

We danced between the raindrops
As though time itself was uncertain.

Couples kissed and felt each other up,
They gossiped and whispered secrets to us
As we stood in doorways
Close enough to pick their pockets.

The walls bled their silent histories;
The murders and marriages seen from windows.
We heard the clip-clop of carriages
The clang of Christmases past,
Melding with the clattering chatter
Of mobile phone conversations.

If we had vanished or burst into flame
All eyes would have turned to the
Sale signs in shop displays
Promising bargain basement trinkets,
They would have stared at nothing
And shuffled along the conveyor-belt unawares.

We were riding on the wind,
Dancing between the raindrops.

We were as real as a mountain.
We could have crept up on God.

And people passed right through us
Tossing coins towards the buskers.
And the sonic soup of the trumpets and guitars,
Carol singers and church bells,
The bored, tired children and weary parents,
The Wham! songs, the Slade songs, the Pogues,
All became a thunderous hush
Like voices from the moon.

And we rode on the wind,
Danced between the raindrops,
Moved like a mountain;
We crept up on God.