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Jack Horne. Click the Next or Previous links below the poem to navigate between poems. Remember, Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth. Thank you.
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In Swirling Mist
In swirling mist, I inch along the roads,
There are no passengers aboard the coach;
This is no night for driving heavy loads.
The headlights full to warn of my approach,
My scalp is prickling: wonder what this bodes
(My instincts always prove beyond reproach).
And then dismembered hairy hands appear;
An evil laugh the last thing that I hear…
* based on a local legend
Jack Horne, 24th August, for Nette’s Through the Mist contest