The stranger let his roan mare find the way
until at last they stopped near Finder's Lake.
The wind through paper leaves hissed like a snake;
the sky was purple, and the lake was gray.
Pale clouds like lucent, tattered flags unfurled
to cover pinprick stars. Somewhere a loon
cried. The image of the wandering moon
rolled across the lake-top like a pearl.
And if he saw the ghost of Finder's girl
or knew her, murdered for her lover's sake
these thirty years, he never stopped to say.
Next morning there were footprints from the lake
(not such as from a creature of this world)
and hoofprints leading toward the breaking day.
1 comment:
Nicely handled Petrarchan--as I think I've said, I favor the Petrarchan. Like the spooky flavor, too (wouldn't quite call it horror. Sort of reminiscent, in a very nice way, of Long Black Veil or that Johnny Cash song, "Son, what is your alibi?/If you were somewhere else, then you don't have to die."
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