A Line Of Trees

A line of trees
Cold blown; benumbed.
What glows for Day's eye thereneath
Sinister is.

Late Autumn eve.
Fogs of cursed tales
Now fall. Funeral bell toadstools
Pixies atop.
Drifter, into a bog's slop
Enticed, amiss....
Copyright © | Year Posted 2026

Poem

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