Crossing

CROSSING

 

Crossing the broken bridge

An hour before dark

Not slipping where the planks are missing

Not coming back

 

Crossing the whispering marsh

Mist sidling down

Not stopping where the ditch divides

Not turning round

 

Opening the old house door

Starlit hard floor

Flames flickering from the ruined tower

Dawn in one hour.

 

This is definitely a Gothic poem! A mysterious journey, night, mist, a ruined tower.

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