Their Christmas Eve Ghost

​

 

Distant steeple, in frosted rime

Ancient woodland, preserved in time.

 

Each year a dream, a heaven-sent mission

A feeling to fly there, sit still, and listen.

 

Robin alights, on mossed gatepost

She’s waiting for her, Christmas Eve host.

 

Wisp of smoke, arose from the stack

Pork joint roasting, there on the rack.

 

Holly and Mistletoe, adorn the porch eaves.

Wound round with ivy, and scented rosemary leaves.

 

In shadowed hall, woollen rug and open fire

With carved mantle of stone, to raise candle-light higher.

 

Armchair and footstool, placed to the right

Ready for the book, and brandy sipped night.

 

The house is silent, save orange glow crackle

A silver silhouette, and a love-filled cackle.

 

Whispered past, from high, high, above

A gentle memory, of a life, and a love.

 

Lost in the flames, and deep in his sorrow

He might feel some peace, come daybreak tomorrow.

 

But tonight marked ten years, to the very day

His beloved Roesia, had passed quietly away.

 

She was his heart, she was his wife

Filled his soul, filled his whole life.

 

With a closed eye nod, to her worshipped portrait

He slippers to the door, with hunched-over gait.

 

A decade of heartache, he’s shared with dear Robin

Little red breast attentive, with kind head a-bobbing.

 

To thank little Red, for her annual listening

Cecil opens his palm, to offer bacon bits glistening.

 

Patiently Robin watches, for his final word

She waits til she knows, he knows he’s been heard.

 

From his old hand, Red beaks her warm treat

One elegant movement, winter hunger to beat.

 

Black door re-clicked, Cecil’s back in his nook

Returned to his fire, and his favourite book.

 

Robin with a flick, of little brown wings

Red breasted angel, re-nested she sings.

 

In the darkness of the cold winter’s night

Their Christmas Eve ghost, has seen them both right.

​

​