We start this story with a turbulent night,
one plagued with an incessant plight
of faceless terrors that do excite
We wake from the bed on the wrong side,
and still – eyes blurred it can be spied
the ghost writing is there scryed
on the wall.
We make our way to the kitchen below –
the sky is curtained for a no-show –
is chilled in the lack of the glow
of the sun.
We note that the hour is almost noon,
there is cold soup ’round a spoon
congealed – best still be cocooned
© christine DINGLEY 2011