The Ghost of my Wife (Do You Believe..?)

Last night I saw the ghost of my wife

in the lawless hours

when decent folk sleep

something roused me and made me aware

of somebody moving

a foot on the stair.

In that paralysed, half-sleeping, half-waking time

when you just have to move

but you can't, though you try.

Then a constable's whistle, the sound of swift flight

made its way to my ear

in the dead of the night.

'I must go and see, see if all is secure,'

but I lay there pinned by

half-sleeping, half-waking.

Then a knock at the door of the chamber once still

strengthened resolve

and I rose from my bed.

'Who are you?' I cried, 'Who are you,' again

the door slowly opened and

the spectre stood there.

'Who are you?' I cried, 'Who are you,' once more

as she held out

a flask of silver and black.

Silver and black the colours she wore,

Not showing her face

as, insistent, she came.

Silver and black, splendid and terrible,

insistent I take it

the flask that she bore.

I called out, more earnest, 'My husband!' she cried

my wife, now behind me

on our bed by my side.

I turned, and again, and the vision was gone

that woke me so late

weaving argent and ebony.

Now, as I sit in the pale morning light

sleepless, reviewing

events of the night

there's a step on the stair outside my door

my spine stiffens and I,

fearing once more

to waken her twice whisper in fright,

'Who are you

that spirit who troubles my night?'