Thursday, 20 January 2011


When I was young
I was haunted
by the faraway wail
of Delta ghosts.

Each night the sound
of the long dead
would scream on in
and sputter out.

My ears would strain
as Midnight closed
and dread would tighten
its mucid grip.

I didn’t know
What a levee was,
though I felt that hellhound
on my trail.

A greasy sweat
swathed my brow
each evening late
as sheets pulled tight.

But Uncle John
with soothing tones
would banish the creeps
and bid "Goodnight".

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