Through a crack in the curtain I see
a white-robed figure in the street,
next to my neighbour's house.
They gaze off, away from here;
you almost feel they don't see
the nearby door,
don't have a hand on the post,
don't lean towards the place
where people live.
And looking again, hoping not to be seen,
steeling my face in case I meet their eyes,
I see the figure is gone.
There is no white shape,
or long leg turned in a moment's pause.
An empty street and no light
is left where they stood.
Staring at the place
I let the curtain fall:
this one veil is solid and real,
the other is stretched and torn.
© Amanda J Harrington 2016