Like ghosts of Autumns past
Mists skim skeletal trees
As darkness cloaks the common world
Of day with mysteries
November’s night is deep
A haunted corridor
Where vagabond-like vespers weep
And sweep its tuneless shore
We cannot see the stars
How black the air is laid
We feel our way like foreigners
At a strange masquerade
November’s midnight moans
It chills us with its sighs
The cat lurks like a murky, lone
Apparition with eyes
…where ghosts of autumns past
Come out to romp and play
And fill November’s night with casts
That disappear by day
© Janet Martin
"November's night is deep, A haunted corridor". That's my favorite image in this poem.
ReplyDeleteI think about you sometimes: "How would Janet describe this?" You pull images out of the air and set them down as words.
Thank-you for the beautiful encouragement on my blog when I woke up this morning. Each comment, often a poem to themselves, was cherished.
DeleteGod bless you.