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 …
Jan 28, 2019
Jan 28, 2019 at 11:32 AM UTC
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 …
Very early poem, at least 20 years ago :-)
