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By Ruth Calder Murphy (Arciemme)
cobweb-fine and gentle as gossamer -
the silent, swan song sigh
Grey ghosts ride on the grainy tide
like drizzle on a mountainside -
on the seat by the fountain,
breadcrumbs at my feet,
losing definition as the light dies.
Pigeons peck their goodbyes
and coo their evening lullabies.
The breeze whispers chills
and thrills my goosebumped skin
with suggestions of shadows
lurking on the lake
and creeping close
to nuzzle my boot-enclosed toes.
A mouse scuttles with the shadows,
then, startled, runs away.
Dusk gives way to darkness
and the justice of night upon day…
In the high sky, galaxies bloom.
Stars crowd the slender moon
and echoes of nursery rhymes
twinkle how I wonder...
and wander to my spiralling soul...
I stir from the cold seat
- where I’ve become
somewhat numb -
and homewards head
to meet my dreams: