Going Home

The ghost are everywhere.
I see them under trees.
In gardens and ice cream parlors.
Going home after all the passing years
It is a haunted place
Yet it will always  be home.
The small English town
Lichen covered stone everywhere.
Even the cobbled streets remain.
Shining wet in the ever present rain.
Between the faded 
Old fashioned shops
On either side.
A church clock strikes three.
As children jump from
The school steps
Like a soul returning to heaven.
I see a boy with his scruffy dog.
They are happier than billionaires.
The dog reminds me of my boyhood pet.
A scruffy mongrel running happily
with an even scruffier boy.
It is only another ghost.
But I think it is me.