Ghost story night at Writing class.
Spooked, we giggled in the car park,
scraped ice from windshields,
boosted heaters, went our ways.
My way was lonely, dark:  Willow Lane.
I thought "Don't now call up the scary tales,
the ghostly motor bike, the eerie glow."

But they came anyway so I drove fast,
saw the lane rush to meet me,
my rear-view mirror askew
in case my mind placed a passenger there.
But he was in the hedge.  A man, unmoving,
coat collar up, staring like a sentry.

Later, in sunshine, I saw him again
the sawn-off tree, and laughed.  
Wondered at the transformation dark and fear had wrought.
I called him Bill, sought him out on night-time journeys.
He rendered Willow Lane benign, quelled fright,
made safe the silly tales,

until the night he waved …