I've always loved ghost stories. I'd love to see a ghost. I wish there were
ghosts. Unfortunately, I think they are nothing more than the product of our imaginations. We can still have fun pretending.
One Twilight Apparition
Mist-veiled riverside, a place of the low-weeping willows,
In that transient space between day and night,
In a faded maiden-hair hue of twilight,
Stays always, sways and droops on shaded sward pillows,
The breeze-hosted eve,
Where ghosts conceive
A reenactment of a long-ago day.
Come from faraway, to pay
Homage to their secret place,
Invoked by the betrothal of yesteryears,
The lost spirits return to trace
The sacred space where spilled their heart-sent tears,
Where once flourished a garden of longing,
Where myriad dryads spriteward leap to meet
The twain, at the fog-form robes thronging,
With oaths of allegiance, to their guests entreat -
The entourage of otherworldly lovers
Whispering vows beneath shadow covers,
And the pixies implore the deep woods' omniscient heart,
Their anguish falling as a soft summer rain.
To the mercy of the fog their sobbing wishes impart
That the flow of ages must cease -
The current of time and timelessness flow as one,
That restless love may at last find peace,
And the search for conclusion at last be done.
And the willows pray, for a moment more,
For a moment more when once young love yearned for eternal youth,
For an enduring place beyond their mortal shore -
To sail far and wide, drifting out beyond the sea of truth,
To come to the banks where past and present meet,
Where trembled tender hearts and stood resolute feet.
But in an oblivion-sent breath, fleeting hope come and gone as before,
Lovers are lost once more to the ebony ocean of nevermore,
Disappearing in a momentary swirl,
In a moonlit whirl -
Waltz of heaven-blown grass and leaves,
Calling to each other upon the breeze.
And the fairies weep softly in the trees.
And wind along the river banks openly grieves.