Wednesday, 29 March 2017
That was the year the apparitions came,
cold ember phantoms, arising each dawn
to trail through ash groves and wild country lanes.
Ghosts in the wheat fields were shaking the grain
and children's voices called over bright lawns -
that was the year the apparitions came.
High in the elm trees the rooks cawed their claim.
The sweat of the river lay in long shrouds
dripping round ash groves and wild country lanes.
Bone-leaves tumbled to earth. The Autumn rain
drummed on the rusty sheds housing the cows.
That was the year the apparitions came.
Something was taken I won't have again.
The wind rattled into the ripened copse,
dropping the hazels down wild country lanes.
Death plays Hangman, like a child at it's game
completing the scaffold, drawing the corpse.
That was the year my apparitions came,
blowing the ashes down wild country lanes.
First published in Three Drops From A Cauldron 10/2016