Spirit Play
The picture haunts,
a tree back-lit,
its leaves a flutter,
winds driving clouds to streaks,
a mesh to hold the sky in blue,
and eternity hidden
beyond the reflection’s hue.
Those feathered plumes,
those white strokes
dragged so pointedly in artists scope,
haunts me still; it moves,
and creaks as boughs bend,
and the rush of air I feel in my hair,
as I look upon this painted scene.
Eyes upon me, somewhere, I know not,
expected, a man looking back,
but he escapes my eye,
as the gusts ensue
and clouds race the eternal blue,
my heart pounds
wondering when he’ll reveal himself.
This picture teases me,
grasps my neck and squeezes; closer I look,
and no-one stares back;
the papers on my desk do flutter,
curl from all this wind, and still,
a blackened window from a small hut remains,
but someone lurks behind, I chill.
When sun falls down and colors meld,
this scene in change, this picture held,
and as darkness swallows whole my dream,
and the gloaming races to fall,
a man steps out into the low light,
and tips his hat,
as if to bid good night.
And so my picture upon the wall,
draws my mind, expectations soar,
until the night surrenders day,
and stories told in spirits play,
and return I do to life,
still wondering
how sane my plight.
Tony DeLorger © 2017
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The last two stanzas grabbed me, the bone chilling filling of fear of someone watching. How the light can reflect our feelings, dim or bright the scene sends out a message of wonder. Our minds conger of mysterious thoughts of who or what may be hidden from our view. When our calm is broken and a figure appears, we often think, why do you appear or are you here to give me a scare. Those types of dimly lit scenes often bring out our inner concerns. This is a wonderful poem Tony, you captured the essence of a cabin dimly lit extremely well. Cheers
Thanks Vincent, glad you enjoyed the feeling of the poem. Much appreciated kind words my friend.