I marvel as the fen lights move through grass
In late November’s dusk below the oaks.
This quiet night, the air, the light, invokes
Wan wailing ghosts with eyes of burning brass.
Then in the brake I spy one winsome lass,
So pretty, pale, as on her sobs she chokes,
As fen lights spray a thousand shafts like spokes
Across a stagnant pool like mirror glass.
And in the ruined abbey walls I hide
Until I mark the dawn grow in the East,
And count the fading spirits as they glide
Until the Sun swells huge like leavened yeast.
I fall asleep with ghost and ghoul and sprite
And wake again when once more comes the night.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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it's so much fun to see what you do with words each day! this is a very graceful poem.
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A perfectly penned Italian sonnet with wonderful image and meter. This poem flows as smooth as hony off the lips. This fantasy takes the reader's mind on a vacation.
Love,
Amera
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