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Poetry Magnum Opus

A Christmas Ghost Story

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The rain's relentless. Within the refuge
of the sheiling, a mother's cooing
to her son - twelve weeks
disconnected. Her skin's as white
as goat's cheese. Are you ghosts? I ask
noting the absence of light
from her eyes. No, she answers.
We're as real as the walls
that frame the fields.

I see the copestones, a line
of ragged teeth; and the hearting
tightly packed, filling the gaps:
walls are the sap of maps -
the veins that pulse a tapestry -
stitching longings to the edge
of the wind. An itch crawls across
my skin as the child suckles.
Cradled within the mother's eyes
I hear a net fluttering with butterflies
and I kiss her graveyard lips.

A scoop of something unholy
unearths in the failing light,
flourishing bracken beneath skin.
My heart, throbbing with departing -
clickety clack the hearse is back.
Boxed. Outside the plip plop plop plip
of rhythms on walls, within walls -
a patchwork of loss and birth
and my lips suck the stones,
a child seeking solace on sweets.

Shadows dance pirouettes
in curtains of rain, until the clouds
shred and the moon embroiders
the sheiling with threads of webs.
I hear my last, clutching breath
leaking over cold bones, names in stones.
The walls breathe - the whisper prowling,
voices blossom and fade and blossom.
Decoded, disconnected
I ghost.

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A strangely familiar setting and mood, Badge. This night, from the unnatural rain to clearing, cold you took me there. Loved it.



Here is a link to an index of my works on this site: tonyv's Member Archive topic

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Thanks Tony. Strange how the festive spirit brings forth ghostly tales!

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