It spread as a plague across the waves, a thickening mist
Texturizing itself, by layers depths of degree, seemly evolving
Until nothing could be seen except the fog itself.
The vapor devoured and swallowed everything within its
Enveloping path, but beneath the world of men remained
Silent and still, as if frozen in pauses supernatural freeze.
On Lake Erie the witches’ winds screamed with a howling
Vengeances fury, against the Toledo basin, rocking the shore line
The mistress of the lake waters, is a possessive temptress,
Unwilling to give up that, which she claims, as belonging unto her.
A bitter ban-she, of aquatic witchery, enchanting the living,
And dragging them beneath the waves of certain death.
Yet on the sacred night of Halloween, this witches spell of enchantment,
Is broken, and the undead are freed, from their shackles tethering.
From the murky fathom's below the lost ghosts ships, of Ohio's
Treacherous waters rise upwards, emerging bursting
Through the surface world above at last.
In old Iron Ville, phantom images restart these ancient factories,
Massive machinery covered in cobwebs, are breathing with life
Once more, as gears grind, against rusted cogs, and the sky
Fills with gray smog again.
Shifting free from the silt, and muddy bottom below,
Wooden beams slam against the harden shore,
Caked in seaweed's greenery, corporeal long shore men,
Wait to begin their after life's trade, to pull at the ropes
And secure these giants of the lake.
One by one, do they come forth ghostly vessels,
Steamer ships, wooden sailing crafts, even the famous
Edmund Fistjurald, a waits it’s hail for docking's mooring.
As the blasting fog horns blow, in the far off distance,
A blazing search light beams cutting outwardly.
Trying to pierce across the waters cresting edge, from the
Distant Sandusky lighthouse, a beacon shines biting and
Nipping at the heels of the foggy veil, to expose the way
Through these turbulent tidal under currents.
Its guidaning light directs all ships, home ward bound,
Both real, and the ethereal, to lay their anchors, unto shelters
But at the stroke of twelve the skies clear, suddenly the mist
Lifts as if sucked away, by an unknown force.
All visions of the neither realm vaporize, into nothingness,
And the docks of yore clasp again, unto the fathoms deepest
Depths, as if they never arose at last.
Yet on the shore line a child of man has witnessed these
Mysterious events, and will tell the tail long after the calm.
And he'll remember the sound. of the docks slamming against
The harden edge, of the lake called Erie.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN