THE GHOST

I see him gliding through the trees,

Bit barely see at all –

its just a filmy likeness

of who he was before;

I catch a glimpse of spirit

from the corner of my eye

But when I turn my head, he’s gone–

no matter how I try

I can’t see him any clearer–

Too soon, again, he’s gone,

Tears fall in vain and yet I go

to tread land where he’s walked on.

 

Sandra Lee Smith,

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