The Ghost      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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