WARDLEY D I BARRY
The wind was getting cold
and the ghosts were getting bold.
It was a quarter past dead and the night was old.
Beside the fire we gathered,
sister, brother and mother,
to talk to an imaginary friend, we call father.
A few yards away was a couple,
their hands cupping a candle.
They too have an imaginary friend for their troubles.
Our friends were enemies, said mother.
That's why we must keep apart.
No two friends can share the same heart.
But people apart cannot feed the flame,
so when morning came
one of them was lamed and one of us maimed.
We wish we had known earlier
that all along it was just us out here
and the friends we make only feed on our fear.