I had been sent to write a report <br />Upon the old music hall <br />Having been allowed inside the dilapidated building <br />I sat alone in the front of the stalls <br />I put up my travelling writing table <br />Laying note book and pen on the top <br />It just hadn't seemed right somehow <br />To bring along the laptop <br />Sitting back to savour the atmosphere <br />I smelt the dust in the worn velvet seats <br />In my minds' ear, I could hear <br />The master's overloud voice <br />Using long, complicated words <br />To introduce each act <br />As if he had swallowed a dictionary <br />I heard old songs, so simple and sweet <br />And the laughter at the comical turns <br />I saw the gaudy costumes <br />Seeming to shine in the footlights <br />I gasped at the magician small conjuring tricks <br />And I would have sworn that the ventriloquist's dummy <br />Could really talk back <br />It was in that moment, I realised <br />All the pleasures I'd just enjoyed <br />Had all been in my imagination <br />Smiling to myself at my foolishness <br />I reached for my notebook and pen <br />When to my amazement <br />The pen rose in the air <br />It hovered for a moment over the pad <br />Before writing these following few words <br />'We were here'.<br /><br />Marilyn Shepperson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/there-s-no-such-thing-as-ghosts/
