Little ghost dog
Appearing out of nowhere
In the dark
Living room
Running
Out of the side door
In the grey haze of light
From the back room window
The little ghost dog
Would I
Even remember you now
But for your ghost?
There was a half-told story
That the little white dog
Was mistreated and died
I was in the miner’s house
In Cannock
The father was dying
In the front room
That was hardly big enough
For his bed
Everywhere in that house
Tragedy collected
Hungry for suffering
The front door
Was hardly ever used
By the family
Everyone
Went in and out
Of the back door
If you did
By chance
Happen to knock
On the front door
You would
Be strangely aware
You were knocking
On a dying man’s door
The family dog
A little white poodle
Was meant to be loved
Was meant for love
But instead
Like the master of the house
It died or it was killed
To become
The little ghost dog
That I saw that day
As I sat waiting alone
In the terrible gloom
Mikes New Web 
I reckon I’ve been in that house 🖤
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This is a strange comment; have you had a similar experience?
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Sorry, I didn’t mean to be deliberatly mysterious.
I have a historical link to Cannock (the place) and your description of the house here bought back some special memories for me 🖤
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Thank you for your reply, so you seem to recognise something?
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Yes, I certainly did.
The description of the house, how it’s used by the family, the dying man.
All images, feelings and memories your beautiful writing reminded me of.
I liked this a lot 🖤
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A sincere thank you for your reply. Maybe you can write about your own experience one day
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I’m sure I’ll find a way to put it in somewhere one day.
I loom forward to reading more of your poems too 🖤
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