Lillian Grace . A Ghost Story for Christmas.

It was in April I remember such a cruel windy Night,

How the Trees did shake by the Rain-Blackened Sky,

For there overhead such a Storm  was announced,

So I took shelter under-Roof of a

Lychgate near by.

And with a Howl and a Gust the downpour was made,

As the Town did retire behind a Curtain of Mist,

For awhile I must wait, by the Funeral Gate,

Until the Heavens had spoke, all anger desist.

And as I looked all around to a Graveyard near,

Not a sight of a Soul could be seen in the gloom,

Until my eye caught the form of a figure in White,

Alone and Forlorn, standing near a small tomb.

With upmost concern I approached the small girl,

For a Female It was with long ringlets of hair,

And barefoot she stood in a Nightgown of Silk,

An Image I formed of forsaken despair.

It took me as strange as I gazed at the girl,

How her Tresses were unmoved by the strengthening gale,

And the dress of pure White was  unnerving a sight ,

By It’s stillness no Storm could assail .

‘What need do you have here’? I asked of the child,

‘This is no place to be wandering at Night’,

Her eyes had a look that were distant and dull,

For no man had ever witnessed a more disturbance of  sight.

‘I want to be Home with my Mother again , to be Read Rhyme and lulled on to sleep’

’To See my dear Pa for they all miss me so,

Now sitting by my bedside to Weep’.

I took the Child’s age as Six-Summers long,

I asked her ‘Please tell me your name’,

‘I’m Lillian Grace ,Oh Lillian Grace ,

’My Home is down Old Priory Lane’.

Her voice seemed to come from a distant place,

Like a calling from another Room,

How the Face pierced my Soul

With Its Portrait of White, To give an unearthly Shock to this Canvas of gloom.

‘The Wind has a frost you must be feeling this Night’

For I warrant It was numbing with cold,

’Oh! It will bother me not, I thank you Kind Sir,’

‘Not since  the Fever did start to take hold’.

‘I just want to be Home with my Mother again ,To be read Rhyme and to be lulled on to sleep’,

’To see my dear Pa for they all miss me so’,

’Now sitting by my bedside to Weep’.

And with those last words she turned and so walked ,

To the Black Shape of the Church sat behind,

And so stately a walk was the flow of her tread,

To give disquiet to the sanest of Minds.

The wet Blackened Trees seemed to swallow her up,

And no more did I see her wan Face.

So with the Storm at Its Hight,

On this dismal of Nights,

I just wanted to be gone from this place.

Now so left-alone I looked on towards ,

That Tomb that seemed to hold her in place,

How my blood ran-on Cold by the Words on the Slab,

For the name was of One Lillian Grace.