Ghost pages and angelic faces.
The turning page got stuck halfway and lay there in mid air.
Held by ghost hands I’d not planned for a fine spectacle and quick sand.
I sank deeply and rapid like quitting a place that’s sliding beneath a bin lid. Foretold from a story that grows old.
Roots which hold folds in the memories alcoves.
It’s where the doves go to rest and coo.
It’s a turned page that got stuck halfway through.
The angelic faces are kind of creepy too.
© G.P Williamson 2018