II: Sunday Ghosts#
On Sunday morning drive to your
Mountain cemetery,
From black of road there rose the mists
To west where winds carry
The ghosts the ground have failed to keep
Where earth lay bare through tar,
Where oaks and willows reach to weep
But watch aghast afar,
Decades through pores now poured in droves
As over them I drove,
Their grasping tongues of fog unfurled,
With craft a road they wove,
Until no longer did I drive but flee
From lane of memory.
March 2025
Date |
Publication |
Status |
|---|---|---|
March 27, 2025 |
Think Journal |
Rejected |