mistrale

Night on the heart land. A cold mist has risen from the fields. The trees in the garden of my father loom sere and strange. Orange street lamps hover above the lullay little town. I walk with the dog through the stillness. I am a ghost. Not another soul. The numbers we give years blur away. I suppose it is on nights like this I may be permitted to return. If you meet me do not be afraid bold traveller. I wish you well.