Down where the lazy river bends,
A hectic tide of fog descendse
The homely cows I’ve come to milk
Are moth cocoons of thin gray silk.
The ghostly ash that guards these lands
Looms suddenly with cluctching hands,
And missing, drips a fiendish splat
Unsteadily upon my hat
From fog-beads strung along each twig.
They dance a mad abandoned Jig
And eye me as my lantern swings.
I’m not one who imagines things,
Yet I’m suspicious of each log:
There’s menace, somehow, in this fog–
The soul of something, writhing, tied…
My milking’s done; I’ll go inside.
I can’t feel foolish, though, before
I slam the friendly kitchen door.
by Ray Romine Saturday, February 2, 1952
