Ghost Story: A poem
As a response to the Writing Session brief ‘Write a ghost story‘ I decided on an impulse to try it as a poem:
The first time he saw, from the corner of his eye,
The light in the mirror, he didn’t know why,
But he found himself smiling, feeling at peace.
It was only much later that he felt ill at ease.
His days were now lonely, his bitterness deep,
Merely filling the hours till the night, time and sleep.
The light in the mirror flickered anew,
A momentary image, a face, ‘Is it you?’
A memory woken, a moment of fear,
Feeling helpless again, as if she were here:
‘I need you; can’t manage; don’t leave me alone,’
The constant refrain from the selfish old crone.
She’d whined and manipulated, threatened and lied.
Subservience and servitude, all he’d known till she died.
He looked to the garden where he’d laid her to rest,
Her demise unreported, he’d thought it was best.
Her death at his hands, at the end of his tether.
Peace, without her at last after decades together.
He draped an old cover over the glass,
Told himself not to worry, she’s gone now, at last.
Next morning the cover had dropped to the floor.
He started to see the reflections once more.
The freedom he’d craved still eluded him now.
Was she haunting him yet, the vicious old cow!
He took down the mirror, put it out by the bin.
In the windows each evening the light was now seen,
And the face that he loathed and feared like no other,
His bitter and twisted, demanding, old mother.
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