Ghosts - The Beginning Of The End Poem by Paul Warren

The local aborigine men were sitting in a circle close by
And they chanted their sacred songs up to the azure sky
The singing of their songs stirred the land and their dreaming made
And they say during this sacred time lost spirits were appearing in their glade

They were calling to their ancestors in the Dreamtime
And for the Rainbow Serpent to help them in this modern time
You see a new Iron Ore Mine had destroyed their local sacred place
And the things put there for the Unknown Evil to displace

Close by there was a Mining Town
Where the people were busy with prosperity all around
They were attracted to high wages in the Mine
And as it is in the Outback all getting along so fine

The aborigine elders had been singing their song
With the day turning to night it had been going on so long
And on the edge of the iron mountain range on by
The people saw the Min Min lights dance in the sky

So the singing stirred the spirits in the land
And the people could feel the electricity at hand
The spell of the country started to build
And it gathered other lost souls within the local field

In the Iron Ore Mine the night shift had just started
The foreman went to the truck parks as they departed
Just to his left a figure appeared who he recognised as Fred
Who had died in his truck when it rolled across his head

The ghostly figure did not speak just walked on past
And climbed up a truck's ladder then sat in the seat of the last
So the foreman walked up to the truck and looked straight at Fred
He cringed in horror at a face crushed and eyes that were dead

In the town Joan had brought her father up from the city
But before he settled in a heart attack took him in a jiffy
That night Joan could hear the rocking chair on the veranda creak
And she saw a figure on the chair in a light that was weak

She slowly opened the fly wire screen door
And saw to her shock it was her father once more
But this time the skin of his face was a grey pallor
He had appeared on his chair which to him that did matter

The local police sergeant was patrolling the town
And his attention was drawn to the local highway ground
There was a crashed car on the edge of the bitumen
That was similar to the one he had dealt with before to contend

He stopped and stepped out of the patrol car
And walked up to the wreck a distance that was not far
He cowered back when seeing the scene quite clear
The driver was moving without his head which was staring quite near

Mrs. Jones had lived for years in the older part of town
Long before the Mine had brought prosperity around
Her husband had left even after she did to him implore
And later she had lost her only son killed in the Vietnam War

She was awoken by floor boards creaking in her son's room
So she left her bed and walked into his room in the darkened gloom
Her son was standing there looking at her with a gaping wound in his chest
And he would not answer as she cried out for him so bereft

These lost souls had been called back by the elder's singing
When the spirit of the land rose and found them all willing
As the dark of the morning hours wore on
They would not reply to questions raised just staring there all along

The elders of the people were still singing their spirit song
When the dawn started to bring an end to the ceremony along
The first ray's touched their sacred place
And with a nod abruptly stopped singing in their spiritual grace

So as the dawn brought a new day to the town
And ordinary people started moving around
The driver finally disappeared from the truck cabin
And Joan's father was gone from his chair he had been in

The wrecked car and its driver vanished from the sergeant's view
And the brave soldier went from in front of his mother too
All of these people stood and wondered why this had occurred
Was it was a vision from their troubled past that was inferred

Perhaps after all is said and done
Some things should be left alone and some arguments are better not won
What happened in this Mining town
May be the start of the Unknown Evil getting around

© Paul Warren Poetry