The Haunting by Raymond Wilson

At the foot of the bed in the dead of the night
It stood there, or rather it hovered
Two luminous eyes and a face ghastly white
From which I have never recovered.

When I asked, ‘Who are you?’ It looked taken aback,
Indeed, you could say It looked frightened;
But then, I was too, and my hair, raven-black,
From that moment has curiously whitened.

So I asked It once more, ‘Who are you?’ – Again
Its pale lips moved mockingly, mutely,
While the night-wind howled loud in the sobbing rain
And It stared back, trembling acutely.

Which seeing, I screwed up my courage and switched
On the lamp, hands fumbling in terror –
Then my eyes met a jibbering idiot who twitched
Like my twin in the newly hung mirror.

by Raymond Wilson


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Poetry, theatre, literature, films, reviews and various other matters. Primarily Russian and Welsh subjects.

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