Under the stern gaze of the summer moon
my big sister, Juliet to Romeo,
Cathy to her Heathcliff,
slid each night on the porch's sloping roof
down to Lovers' heaven
below our bedroom window.
Little sister hugged the secret
into her midnight pillow,
waited for the tap of stones on glass
then flitted like a ghost to unlock doors
and let big sister in
from her illicit play.
Now that romance has flowered,
yielded fruit and withered all away,
I wonder, does a ghostly
tapping on the glass
disturb the dreams of sleepers in that room
whenever moonlight silvers trees and grass.
Janice Windle
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poems-from-haunted-houses-the-go-between/
