of Scarborough Fair
From whence he came, we do not know
Or what happened here, so long ago
The tale no doubt, though quite sincere
Was how he ventured to appear
One night, when the house lights were low
In the middle of some epic picture show
A seaman's figure, ghostly white
Rose up through the filtered light
A Phantom, no part of the theme
Nor more a part of any dream.
With passing time, the story told
Of how, this familiar ghost made bold
For often was the spectral vision seen
Wafting down from back of screen
Down the stairs, across the floor
And front row seated, twenty four.
Shrouded there, he quietly stayed
Until the feature movie played
And although seen often on such nights
He vanished, ere turned up the lights.
In turn the cinema era passed
As had his days before the mast.
The movie crowds soon went away
For television was here to stay
And the ancient mariner's home
Was abandoned, for his soul alone to roam.
Other mortals, came and went
His portals for their purpose lent
Not one of them, at all aware
Of the eerie presence lingering there.
The wheel of time again revolved
And a new picture show inside, evolved
The theatre atmosphere intact
Restored the aura, it had lacked.
The environment was again just right
To rouse him, from his torpid plight
While two painters on a visit here
Enticed the apparition to appear.
It was no shadow on the wall
But a figure drifting slowly down the hall.
Whatever those two artists saw
Left them standing there, in awe
And what they later both described
Matched the story here prescribed
For any time his spirit stirred
the ghostly footsteps could be heard.
With such insight, we thought it best
To lay his fitful soul to rest
And so at last, put back his chair
For he's now the Ghost of Scarborough Fair.
Rodd Sherwin ©
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