A path across stone laid earth
Is the shortest path to home,
Where plastic flowers strewn about
There only lonely spirits roam.
In late October a frosty chill
Cast dead leaves upon the ground.
Sycamores stand with boney branch,
Here only deathly silence abounds.
One must have a brave stout heart,
To travel through this damned place.
The graveyard of embalmed bodies,
Where their lives lost the final race.
It is known, as it has always been
Some spirits are want to never leave.
Their lot to wander twixt heaven and hell,
Moaning in desperation as they grieve.
Mortals may never see them reach
Nor be touched by their icy grip.
But, there are those that do return
When upon the portal of death they trip.
Have you walked the path of which I speak
Feeling that you are accompanied there?
Wisps of mist catch your furtive glance,
Imagined rags dance in the dank night air.
You feel a tightness around your spine,
The beating heart pounds in your ears.
And though you try hard not to believe,
Your quickened step belies your fears.
It is then you are the most vulnerable,
When you cannot catch your breath.
That dark place in our distant past
Shouts you are in a place of death.
Listen, are those your footsteps?
Hear them echo in the dark behind?
Is it only just imagination lurking,
A symptom of your frightened mind?
©2015, Donald Harbour
Donald Harbour Poetry 