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HAUNTINGIt is past midnight As I return home, and there's Something tangible in the atmosphere, Yet whispery and faded As I walk down the deep passageway. My faltering footsteps echo underfoot and Make me stop and look. An icy wave sweeps around Sending a shiver through my body, making Me jar in the doorway of the sitting room. “Hello”, I call out faintly into the eeriness, Waiting for a reply. Only a loud tick tock replies From the old grandmother clock As she stands ever watchful in the corner. My eyes are lifted to glance a figure Sat purposeful at the piano and Strains of Chopin filter gently. The time is 1865, Grandmother would have been in her prime, As she sat on the gate leg stool at her Beloved Bechstein, Nimble fingers in full flow, Red candle burning ghostly. Poetry Ad-Free Upgrades Vote for this poem |
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