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By Ruth Calder Murphy (Arciemme)

Dusk drifts,

cobweb-fine and gentle as gossamer -

the silent, swan song sigh

of Day.

Grey ghosts ride on the grainy tide

like drizzle on a mountainside -

like clouds.

I sit,


on the seat by the fountain,

breadcrumbs at my feet,

losing definition as the light dies.

Pigeons peck their goodbyes

and coo their evening lullabies.

The breeze whispers chills

and thrills my goosebumped skin

with suggestions of shadows

lurking on the lake

and creeping close

to nuzzle my boot-enclosed toes.

A mouse scuttles with the shadows,

investigating crumbs…

then, startled, runs away.

Dusk gives way to darkness

and the justice of night upon day…

In the high sky, galaxies bloom.

Stars crowd the slender moon

and echoes of nursery rhymes

twinkle how I wonder...

and wander to my spiralling soul...

I stir from the cold seat

- where I’ve become

somewhat numb -

and homewards head

to meet my dreams:

to bed.

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