Footsteps on the Stairs
Power dressing, shoulder pads, big hair.
At the tender age of twenty-three,
I listened, closely, from my lonely bed,
To spectral footsteps on the stairs…
I wondered, grimly, if they came for me!
They echoed a measured, ghostly tread.
Paralysed by fear, I lay stock still,
Immobilised by my sense of dread!
Who, or what, had invaded my head?
From my upstairs window I caught a glimpse,
Of an older man, who looked quite like me!
And, at the top of the stairs had been left a note,
A litany of advice, in the form of a letter.
‘Worries will come and crowd your mind,
But few of them will ever matter.
Go out, young man, and have some fun,
But do no harm to anyone.
Earn good money, yet always remember,
The best things in life are free…
And leave some time for your poetry!’