Shadow Play (Poetry)

It is that time of day when wistful thoughts
go wandering — chasing shadows with the last
long slant of daylight slipping past the hills
and in its wake dusk gathers up small ghosts
and fills the hollows — blends nature’s colours
                into spreading grey.

The wind dies with the gloaming — learns to hush
its quarrel with tired trees — layered air hangs cooling
the landscape lullabied into a drowse — relaxed
and ready for the covering of night to wrap it round —
tuck in thin trailing ends of light.

Taking to the wild, the roaming thought will meld
for moments with a shadow — form a shape
of some once-dreamed fantastic beast
who lurks unnamed behind the twilit bars of reeds —
the brittle limits of the lake’s imagination.

Crowding deeper, shadows mime inventive histories — their play
a gothic romance written by a waning moon
for those who watch the curtain inch its dark-edged
comfort — follow scene by scene, with footlights dimmed to stars
as night rolls in to claim the waiting stage — a hooting owl
                offering spontaneous applause.