The Lady Grey

She is a ghost, who glides like marshy mist,

unknown, unheard, uncared for and unkissed.

A sad and sorry sight, if truth be told,

since she was once a poet, proud and bold.

But nowadays she sneaks through door and wall,

soliloquizing shadow in a shawl.

And when dawn breaks and she feels she’s outstayed

her welcome, then her form and features fade.

This ghost, the locals call, The Lady Grey;

she clasps a prayer book in her hand, they say.

But others of a literary bent

say that she holds her lines of lost lament.

For when she floats like phantom down the aisle;

she greets the altar with a sneering smile.