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