THE SPIRIT

THE SPIRIT

In the stygian darkness

He learned to crawl

Eyes closed against moonlight,

And ignoring it all,

A being so lost

He was almost dead

Yet searching for something

Deep in his head.

He saw the nightmare

Of a child in pain,

He wept tears of sorrow

Like salt in the rain,

He felt for an aching

That wouldn’t depart,

A kind of remembrance

Of a broken heart.

Then when the dawn broke

Like mornings might

And the shadows departed

To wait for the night

He found a small place

Where spirits might hide,

A haunted old mansion

With midnight inside.

His was the darkness

That won’t go away,

A mixture of misery,

A blight on the day,

And when the sun saw him

It’s brilliant eyes cried

For the spirit of someone

Who might have died.

And the children came in

With the laughter and ways

And playfully shivered

At the haunting of days,

And squealed, if you want it,

And screeched like they might

As they waited in humour

For the dark fall of night.

But when the sunshine had vanished

And the children were quiet

The spirit came from hiding

In a spiritual riot:

It floated around

Like a mischievous waif

But the children just shivered

Because they were safe

©Peter Rogerson 21.01.09