The Noise of Hauntings

My varied spectres wear strange chains, some creak
like locking-chains on windmills. Others slap
like buckets in the pumps or vanes that seek
the way the shifting wind went. Some will knock
like waves at rotting river-wharves or tap
the dark like striking, wooden mantle-clocks
dividing up the night. Or rattle round
like limbs of swinging lignum. When at last
they rustle on their way they always leave
faint traces of the dessicated sound
that summer rasps
in February reeds.

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