The Dead’s Fairground Antics

“Look no hands” they shout, hogging
the dodgems  and

balancing single-foot
on steering wheels.

Next, the ghost train,
a unanimous favourite

and a dead-cert for causing
disruption.

They settle sniggering
in cavernous shadows. Soon

the living, clustered in carriages,
pass through

the tunnel’s white-lit
entrance.

The dead defer; discussing
amongst themselves

how it all seems so
eerily familiar.

Andrea Bowd

If you have any comments on this poem,  Andrea Bowd  would be pleased to hear from you.