That Time Of Day (Poetry)

It is that time of day the dusk
creeps through the dreaming trees
and the thin edge of evening’s breeze
like a cool hand ruffles the hedge

as the last fading scraps of sun
fray yellow ribbons sinking fast
behind the hills and shadows move
quite imperceptively to fill

imagination’s void with the creatures
of the night ... and there are sounds
that tease the ear — faint and far
others soft but near enough to guess

they have a strange identity perhaps
the myth made real as minutes tick
and the light by gradual degrees
turns its subtle grey to shades of black

where shapes form in the thickening
atmosphere — materialize
and here and there are winking eyes
slinking round as ghosts come out
                                                to play ...

        and suddenly
                        nothing
                                feels
                                    safe