Uncle Samuel’s House

I was okay if I had company but on my own, I felt a chill
A dampness in the air; a breath on a frosty morning
It hung, it clung; swirling like a fog
To create the vision of my late Uncle Samuel

Grey, dead; yet propped up on crutches
Standing in the doorway, well it had been his house
My last sighting of him had been in his coffin
Taken past by my Aunt who never thought to explain
What death meant, why he was in this wooden box
Or where the colour went

Recently I saw his face again but within another’s body
Full of life, colour, smiling, entertaining as he often used to do
Then I knew that the grey was in me; not him
The fog in my mind cleared to recall colour

The colour of his garden and how he shuffled about
Weeding, tending, creating: living – in my childhood
Uncle Samuel’s house was not haunted
I had haunted myself

Not sure if this is a poem/prose or what but I felt compelled to write it after years of recalling this grey vision of my late Uncle and always being frightened when alone in his house. Then recently seeing his likeness in another person, of the same name, yet so vibrant that all fears were allayed.