The gentle breeze,
blows past my knees
and urges me to go.
It says don’t stay
but run away,
to some safe place I know.

Ghostly hands touch
and therefore such,
is the company I keep.
Should be in bed,
somewhere instead,
my eyes they dared to peep.

She came one night,
like pale moonlight,
breaching my chamber door.
The bolt still locked,
my head half cocked
my racing heart was sore.

Closer she came,
her dress like flame
but on her face a smile.
What did she plan,
for this poor man?
Sure not to talk a while?

Resigned to fate,
the hour late
and in the air a chill.
Was I a game?
Some nameless name?
And her with time to kill.

Her icy gaze
could last for days,
no weapon need she draw.
She could soon rest,
hand on my chest,
then I would be no more.

The air was thin,
came drifting in,
the noise of my cats wail.
Would I float high,
remembered by,
some old unopened mail.

Now here she stood
and run I should,
somehow I had to stare.
To my surprise,
she had kind eyes
and long white flowing hair.

Most people die,
when I stand by,”
rang out her soothing voice.
Let your heart calm,
I mean no harm
but you must make a choice.”

Sigh of relief
and disbelief,
she died by some foul deed.
To be a friend
or justice mend,
from earthly life she’s freed.

Then soon I fell,
under her spell,
with her I was awestruck.
Heaven or hell,
may come as well,
perhaps just rotten luck.

By night she came,
through window frame,
that faced the great north wood.
The trees they groaned,
with snow the moaned,
as if they understood.

How I am vexed
and more perplexed,
at my predicament.
Can’t call a friend,
at my wits end,
why ever was she sent?

How will I last?
I’ve fallen fast,
I judge that she’s the same.
Sometimes to stay,
or go away,
to some place I can’t name.

She knows my mind
but still is kind
and wont give up just yet.
Now in the end,
she is my friend
and not some spooky pet.

The snow did melt
and trees they felt,
the warming breath of Spring.
As flowers grow,
more ghosts I know
and stories that they bring.

I could have run,
toward the sun,
on some warm foreign shore.
Would not have met
and never set,
eyes on one I adore.

The trees now leaved,
dancing and heaved,
under the strong west gale.
Drifting through wood,
together stood,
the ghost and I both pale.

By Roger Vincent
Author of “Apostrophe to Zenith”

 

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