The Christmas ghosts

'The Christmas ghosts' by Roger Iredale

'Pure stardust, all of them.' | Photo: Ravi Patel / Unsplash.

In the keenest of winter-black air I hear them
march up East and Manor Streets: Basil
with his barrow cock-eyed over sliced up
tree stumps; Megan, a gin glass tipped
across her breast; balding Bertrand haughty
in his black hat tilted to the sweep
      of ragged winds.

You need to login to read subscriber-only content and/or comment on articles.