Elegy for the Spirit who thinks she is Not Dead

She walks again
along familiar corridors

Her slippers swish against carpet
dressing gown trailing
like the train of a withered wedding dress.

Laughter in rooms of lamp light
brings hope to her
heart-shaped face.

She smiles
as she passes
through bed-chamber doors

curtsies to strangers -
recognises fear.
Longs for comfort.

Andrea Bowd

If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Andrea Bowd  would like to hear them