T C Lethbridge, the celebrated parapsychologist, dowser and author, had no doubt that everything we come in contact with retains an echo of our presence.
Back in the Nineteen-Seventies, I read a number of his books and was much impressed by his experiments with pendulum and divining rod.
Is an imprint left by laughter
in the table and the armchair
or the old Axminster carpet,
that was bought from Camden Market,
by her lively, wayward daughter,
with the golden, windblown hair?
Does mirth lodge still, or does sadness,
in these articles, forsaken,
that, in life, she treasured dearly
as dust grows upon them, yearly?
Does a residue of gladness
rest there, waiting to awaken?
Such things surely cannot perish
but instead, like bulbs in winter,
joy lies dormant, ever-patient
in a state of hibernation.
In the artifacts we cherish
passion lingers like a splinter.