Poetry Blogs (ghostly)

Supper is over and bed-time awaits

The moon has shrunk to a silver cowl

My bedroom window is rimmed with ice

As I watch and wait for the owl

Waiting for the owl waiting for the owl

The woods echo to its supernatural screech

Waiting for the owl waiting for the owl

That ghostly voice more vivid than speech

Is it always the same owl or has it a sibling?

Beak no do...

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My father and mother in front, us boys behind.
It was the most wonderfully frightening experience for us back then.
When asked it was always the way we wanted to go.
Not the usual way down the brightly lit carriageway, but 
through the village then, a turn to the right
down the 'ghosty' way on our way back home.

Dimming the car lights
The horror show could begin.
The white blanketed road...

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