In the gloaming

across the sere grass

I see a shadow roaming

up the hill, across the loam

I see the dark shape pass.

Golden evening light

has given way

to misty twilight,

the shadow’s flight

(or was it descent?) lost in grey.

Who was it

walked that hill?

Who was it

passed by without seeing—

the porch, the cat sleeping still?

And who, indeed,

let their shade-self walk

across the bare grass’s screed,

scoured their shadow-feet

upon stem and stalk, root and rock?

The rambler merged

into the falling night,

not changing form, purged

of his soul, but submerged

into a deeper dark, without light. . .

. . .light, making stark

edges upon stiff grass,

cutting a shadow-leaf upon bark,

Light, making known the dark

and bidding it to pass.

Photo by Lukas Langrock on Unsplash