Who

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A shadowy figure was sitting there
In my favourite rocking chair.
The chair before me slowly rocked
But doors and windows had been locked.
His face a soft spectral shade of white
Beneath beard and hair, softly bright.
I recognised not, this mesmerizing face
As he glanced at me across this space.
The quiet still air within my room
Had taken on, an astounding bloom.
A soundless, noiseless, happening
That silence was almost deafening.
Within a shimmering light that flowed
The room it softly fluorescent glowed.
He said come over to me my son
I did not know whether, to stay or run.
He spread his arms out wide for me
As his face filled gently with serenity.
I approached as close as I could dare
To this figure in my rocking chair.
The aura was all peace and calm
I did not feel a sense of harm.
Will I see this vision here remain
The thought of such, abodes no pain.
Why did he say come here my son?
When my father died, I was so very young.
But so long ago, with some disgrace
I now remember not, my father’s face.
Thoughts from my past, at times are raw
But who was this man I really saw?
Was this the presence of dad himself?
Transposed beside my mantelshelf.
This tender face which I looked upon
I averted my gaze, then he was gone.
As I re-locked again my opened door
I saw him glide his way across my floor.
But who really was, this kindly man I saw?
When I had unlocked my locked door.

With regards from
Mick Scarles (SW19 expat)

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