The ghost of the past

Ghost of the Past

I in my travels discovered an old gold-mining town,
once a bustling place now abandoned and falling down.
The whispers of the past fill the air,
As the miner's ghost wandered with care

The warmth of the sun, with its golden rays
Caressed the remnants of forgotten days,
There was a slight breeze the ruffled the dried leaves,
like the forgotten souls that need to be appeased

As I walked the streets wondering what I would find,
fragments of the past seeped like water into my mind.
Memories of the miners wafted like dust in the air,
The remnants of life caught in a spiderwebs of despair.

I imagined I heard voices emanating from the general store,
And a clatter of boots on the hard, dusty wood floor.
A miner called out, "Throw in a pick and a flagon of grog."
The ladies giggled as they perused the latest mail-order catalog.

I as I walked past an old butcher's shop, imagining meat hanging on large hooks,
The butcher, in his dirty apron covered in dried blood.
Next door was a drapery shop, filled with fine fabric,
Buttons, bows, hats with feathers, and beautiful gloves.

At the pub, where fortunes were won and sorrows drowned.
Ladies of pecuniary persuasions donned their bawdy gowns.
I heard whooping and laughter; a miner had struck it big.
Someone shouted, "Drinks all around!" as the fiddler played an old-time jig.

In my mind, a labyrinth of tents emerged,
the smell of decay and sweat permeated the air.
Families destitute with no money to spare,
Where the cries of infants echoed throughout the night,
As chilling winds encircled the tents, a mother’s plight.

The creek now dry, miner's pans lay rusted with holes.
Wooden rockers that separated sand from gold.
Yet there was a camaraderie between these people,
Who worked from dawn to dusk in the days of the gold rush.