The little girl
Up and round, spiralling on
the well-worn sandstone steps.
Flowery turret room with narrow window,
three steps up to a four-poster bed,
a child's fairytale delight.
Dreaming all night in the company
of a pretty laughing little girl,
with long pinafore dress, wide lace collar,
fair hair tied in a blue ribbon bow,
many petticoats, and tiny soft kid boots
Straight outside to tease the green frogs
in the lilypond, chase each other in the maze,
'once right, then left', she knew it well.
Big creaking swing on a low oak branch,
long daisychains, fuchsiaflower dancers,
seeking greenlit glow-worms in the grass,
and foxglove thimbles for all ten fingers,
the simple games of country children then.
On waking, steps down and round again,
noticing a painting of the pretty girl
smiling beside the lilypond.
'That's poor little Daisy,
she died of a fever many years ago,
in that little turret room you had.
They say her ghost appears sometimes'.
What playmate now?
Will she be lonely?