Séance at Eight
At good Mrs Frobisher's house I arrived,
Where afterlife traces some thought had survived,
The regulars turned up and no one was late
To try Mrs Frobisher's séance at eight.
I chatted a while with both Horace and Maud,
Who spoke of their lifelong belief in the Lord
And while tea and cake for our group were reserved,
Old Horace preferred the red wine that was served.
The wallpaper gleamed, William Morris I think,
An elegant pattern in pale green and pink,
The bookcase included a few HG Wells,
Two Huxleys and Betjeman's Summoned By Bells.
In time Mrs Frobisher said 'Let's begin!',
We sat at the table where she sipped a gin,
I didn't feel scared but I sensed I soon might
As we all held hands and she turned off the light.
My seat was between Mr Grant and Hortense,
The aura seemed taut and grew even more tense
When in a voice sounding increasingly strange
Our hostess informed us a soul was in range.
I waited with patience then started to doubt
If anything spectral would scamper about,
Relaxing a little, I opened my eyes
And that's when I heard the most mournful of sighs.
I knew that it wasn't the mind playing tricks,
Exhaling four feet off some might even fix,
But not Mrs frobisher, one place from me
Who'd only let real paranormal forms free.
I'm sure Horace put the sigh down to the wine
And I felt a tingle shoot right up my spine,
Though after our medium whispered 'Who's there?'
No further response came from out of the air.
The windows grew wetter from soft evening rain,
Politely, she asked her late guest to explain;
Despite the room's darkness no phantom replied,
The only sound heard was the shower outside.
She turned on the light and she called it a day,
Informed us the presence had gone on its way
And I in a mystified, magical state
Left good Mrs Frobisher's séance at eight.
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