Poetry

Occurrence

It’s midnight again and the clock is striking. It’s chiming, ding, ring, outside my door.

 

It’s midnight again and the colours are brightening. They’re painting, stroke, line, on the walls.

 

It’s midnight again and the shadows are evolving. They’re dancing, hop, leap, at the foot of my bed.

 

It’s midnight again and the ghosts are appearing. They’re singing, fa, la, by the window.

 

It’s midnight again and the whispers are growing. They’re chattering, snicker, bicker, by my head.

 

It’s past midnight now, and the house is quiet. Not a sound, breath, sniff, to be heard.