Familiar Haunts
In autumn twilight
the dead parade through quiet streets.
Their superior intuition
leads them to
sitting rooms where
folk hold hands around tables,
invoking ethereal presence.
Or to chilly church halls,
where spiritual healing is awaited.
The dead have learned that a
poke with a finger
onto a maligned limb
can guarantee
eternal appreciation.

Andrea Bowd

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