Mist, like a wraith
Gathers form from the air
Slithers down hillsides
Hides in dark hollows.

He pauses at hedges,
Slips fingers through gates,
Glides his damp touch
Through the wind burnt grass
And frost bleached leaves.

He creeps toward fire-lit windows
And shadowed porches,
Probes hidden cracks,
Peeps through keyholes,
Trails wisps over stone clad floors.

At the wooden barn
He gathers in clouds,
In billowing vapours
To rest before dawn.

The farm dog barks once,
Lonesome and wild.
The farm cat,
All knowing, uncaring,
watches mid-step,
and is gone on his secretive way.

In the dawn, like a ghost,
Mist is gone.

03/19/2003

Posted on 05/22/2004
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