The Woman in the Window
A ghost who does know she is dead
The Woman in the Window
She watches from the upper pane
when nightfall slips across the lane
a shawl drawn tight, a tilted head
they say she mourns, though no one’s dead
No name remains upon the door
the number flaked, the tiles no more
but light still burns from time to time
a yellow glow, a bell’s faint chime
The postman swore he heard her hum
a lullaby, then silence come
and once, a child went up to play
but turned and screamed, then ran away
She doesn’t move, or speak, or blink
just stares beyond the garden sink
as if she waits for someone still
to climb the path, to break her will
A fire once, or so they claim
but no one’s sure who lit the flame
some say she walks, when the air turns cold
her hands too white, her shoes too old
Don’t wave to her, she won’t wave back
she’s part of brick, and dust, and black
the woman framed in window glass
still waiting for her life to pass
About the Creator
Marie381Uk
I've been writing poetry since the age of fourteen. With pen in hand, I wander through realms unseen. The pen holds power; ink reveals hidden thoughts. A poet may speak truth or weave a tale. You decide. Let pen and ink capture your mind❤️
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Comments (1)
This was so eerie and haunting! There's an old man I keep seeing him every morning in the village we pass by to our latest site for work, he stares out the window just like this with empty eyes. I wonder now if he could be a ghost and if he knows it?