A Book Of Ghost Stories
Ah, those dark a’stilled December days, when the greyness fills you;
Most often it’s a slippy trod we take – the dog and me,
along to the small field and stream.
There’s something about that long view through the unclothed woodland,
which brings on some chilly alone-ness and try as you may,
you can’t quite recall and place those growing things, now gone.
It seems somehow fitting that we don’t linger.
It’s just a hot flask, this time;
and a polythene bag on which to sit awhiles
and feel the artificial cleanness of the frost.
For the briefest of time your blood turns to ichor,
and you shiver at that strangeness.
Time to go home now, and leave the images behind.