Sitting in her room on Christmas eve By R.Krishnamurthy

Sitting in her room on Christmas eve
It was her first ever to be alone without a relative
A spinster she was, a school teacher
Then there was a knock on the door

A young man rushes in and apologizes
‘I thought it was my room’ he says
She says its ok, and requests him to stay
But he looks odd in every way

He introduces himself as a writer
And a poet, too busy to go home
Francis Randle was his name
‘My poems and my diary’ he is after

You should read my work he begs
‘You are talking yourself seriously’ she laughs
She wants to treat him to coffee and cake
When she returns he is not there to talk

She wants to read a book from the shelf
A mysterious hand seems to be her guide
My poems and my diary is in her hand
By Francis Randle, she can’t believe herself.