with letters penned in biro
on squares of basildon bond
the glass topped coffee table
becomes a ouija board
and with a tumbler from the kitchen
still damp with blue nun wine
we perform a crude invocation
and request a mystic sign
with fingertips resting lightly
upon the upturned rim
we make do without candles
and turn the lava lamp to dim
so our shadows grow much taller
and loom across the ceiling
as if leaning in to listen
to what the spirits are revealing
and the tumbler moves in circles
glass on glass scraping nerves
as we wait to ask our questions:
will the future bring all we deserve?
yet it stops at random letters
that spell out gibberish
until we realise we have summoned
a spirit that speaks no english
so we thank the powers politely
and allow the errant soul to go
then ask if there is a message
from anyone we know
the tumbler shudders and pulls our fingers
to emphatically point to 'YES'
shadows shrink in the sudden chill
as we shiver and hold our breaths
stories of possession and madness
fill the tabloid press
of malevolence and evil
the deranged and the depressed
but nothing like that happens
in what remains a living room
no glasses breaking with the tension
no pronouncement of coming doom
we could tell of truths revealed
and of fortunes to be made or broken
but the future turns out different
as if the spirit has not spoken
yet the forecast does not matter
or whether it ever comes to pass
regardless if we are sceptical
still something moves the glass
