The Ghosts

Sentimental mid-October,
Winds and whispers flying over
Our heads, while branches swing.
Melancholy’s come to sting
Everyone remaining sober.

This reality, some ponder,
Moves along the realm of ghosts
Which miraculously wander
By her hut. They like to haunt her
Every time the winter frosts.

But she loves it and she counts
Days and nights till winter comes,
And these ghosts with creaky sounds,
Catching up her soothing hums,
Frighten off the hungry hounds

Which at nights around her house
Stay awake to stay away
From that ghost of her ex-spouse —
Quieter than a chapel mouse,
With its hounds it wants to play.

And so she attempts to sight it,
And the goosebumps smoothly sliding
All across her spine and down;
Mistress Winter’s neatly hiding
Frozen ghosts behind her gown.

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