Anastasia
She came to me under tired eyelids.
I never actually met her.
Aunt Anastasia;
quite a common name
for an Irish dame.
She arrived with her long gray hair
flowing like silver moonlight.
She had nothing much to say
but she said it anyway.
Not a very eloquent
or beautiful ghost,
she probably have scared herself to death
pondering on God's wrath.
However she was my aunty
so I welcomed her politely.
As she departed
walking upon spectral clouds
into the midnight blue
she turned just once around
and said:
Who the fecking hell are you?
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2022
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment