Gray mist swirls seductively,
Dancing to a tune played,
By errant breezes slipping
Among the naked branches
Of the barren trees.
Gray lady slips, barely seen,
In whirling cloak,
Or just the mist?
Footfall or merely,
The creaking of a branch?
The prickling of the flesh,
The shiver up the spine,
Is as real as she surely is,
Must it be her, gone so long,
Yet returned this time to seek...
The lover who never deserved her,
Leaving her here to wander
Through these black
And gnarled trees,
Standing guard these lonely years
Over her restless soul?
Gray mist?
Gray lady?
Mind of modern man
Has one answer...
Primal fears from
Cave and fireside
Provide the other...
And on she wanders,
Mist?
Or...
Donovan Baldwin