Patron Saint of
He wanders through hallways as dismal as dawn
the friend of the lonely, bereft and forlorn,
he whispers in voices of those who have gone;
his charges are those who refuse to move on.
The creak of a shutter, the click of a door
the rustle of silk or of leaves on the floor,
his breath is the palpable chill in the air,
his footfall the tap of her heels on the stair.
He’ll make sure you know from the hour you arrive:
the sense of a presence no longer alive,
a dankness, the mouldering smell of a ghost
a just-left-the-room most ungenial host.
A knock on the window, a shade in the glass,
attorney to spectres, reluctant to pass,
caressing the hair to stand up on your nape
he represents those who are seeking escape,
entrapped by their misery, spirits who yearn,
their unfinished business his daily concern.
He soothes them to hush, supernaturally still,
they watch you arrive, unsuspecting, until…
If you have any comments on this poem, Maggie Butt would be pleased
to hear them.