A ghost sits on my wicker chair
(i know you’re there).
Every night at six
It looks depressed and cricks
And groans and sighs
(but you can’t see anybody).

A moth flits round my pink lampshade
(the one i made).
Like a broom-borne drunken witch,
Until I press the switch.
Perhaps it still flies
(but you can’t see anybody).

Old newspapers fit neatly to the corner
(with other fauna).
I sit and watch them age.
With sunlight yellowing each page
You’d think they’d grow more wise
(but they don’t).




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Filed under My poems, Poetry

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