Ghost of the Dome by Mary Pullen

As the evening draws in and the fading sun begins to set, I watch the crowds emerge like tiny ants, swarming from a cold, underground and soulless place. I do not know from where they have come, but I know well to where they go. With tunes on their lips and light hearts these crowds tread heavy and unthinking over my life.

I am the ghost of the peninsular that was, that sadly is no more. I am the busy communities, rich market gardens, the regular terraced cottages, and harsh docklands. My song is dedicated to the memory of people and places now long gone. For them, I play my tune.

Competing with street sounds, pounding music, loud voices, I am the fierce wind in the night and I play the taught cords of the Dome’s high points as a harp, making joyous sounds, creating sonic harmony as a challenge to any lyrical trend.

From on high, I see people look up, drawn from their reveries by the celestial notes of my symphony. Plucking, bending and vibrating the steel, my chords play the tune of my life and I live again.