on a cold star-freckled night,
biting east wind from the Russian Steppes.
I feel the ghost of Sylvia Plath;
she would have watched tonight's full moon with awe
now with a celestial halo
as a thin cloud sedately passes by
underneath a wintertime Cambridge sky.
I picture a girl on a red bicycle
briefly free from troubled thoughts,
wind rushing through blonde locks.
She would have appreciated bronze
gates and Victorian grandeur.
I feel the ghost of Sylvia Plath,
sense she was contented here for a while
cycling in Cambridge with a youthful smile.