Morning Walk

I wear the fog like a cloak, mystic cloth forged by nature

In a preordained fashion, my breath sending waves of

Ectoplasm in the frost-tinged morning of rain drenched

Streets, the houses that line them bearing silent witness

To the spectral silhouette that walks there.

 

My thoughts drift along ahead of me, in tandem with

The restless echoes that haunt my every step, as I make

My way down crooked sidewalks lined with random fissures

Of misuse, where nothing grows between them save an unseen

Darkness I take pains to avoid, in respect to some old superstition.

 

Here and there, in yards of deadened grass, barren trees wave

Mournful hellos as I pass them by, twisted branches of lost recollection

Their only greeting, wraith-like themselves in a foggy drizzle of lightly

Falling rain that drips from gnarled limbs, as though they weep for

A season too quickly gone but not forgotten.

 

George M Jackson

Done