The Christmas ghosts
'The Christmas ghosts' by Roger Iredale
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.
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