The Lady Grey

Like ghost she glides and gleams as marshy mist

Unknown, unheard, uncared for and unkissed

Sad, sorry sight, if truth it should be told

Since she was once a poet, proud and bold

But nowadays she sneaks through door and wall

Soliloquising shadow in a shawl

Till dawn does break and spectre has outstayed

Her welcome, then her form and features fade

This ghost, that locals call the Lady Grey

Holds in her hand a prayer book – so they say

But others of a literary bent

Know Lady bears a poet book she’s lent

And others who've observed her for a while

Have even said they’ve sometimes seen her smile!