While waiting for the harvest moon

Now the fog is on the lake and the lines are blurred again. A mist moves with the haunting grace of a ghost across the surface then disappears. The dock is closed to all activity, the swimming area marked by wooden posts mostly worn. The stony beach is maybe a meter wide and narrows as the rain returns and the water levels rise to consume it. A gnarled tree leans over the shore like it’s reaching out for help but it’s jagged and leafless, more like a claw than a hand.



Categories: prose, writing

Tags: , , ,

12 replies

  1. Lyrical. Liquidy. I like the alliteration and the rhythm. “A mist moves with the haunting grace of a ghost.” Lots to savor here.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Hi friend, thank you! No shortage of M’s. Mmmmm. I’m missing Lynn which this is kind of ode to, you know. Thought about your old timey October thing this morning too and got wistful, that might be coming through here too. Miss you, thanks for this.

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      • Yes, I can see that now you mention it. Thanks for the kind words, man. Ahh, the October thing… I used to so look forward to that. This year I didn’t forgot all about it. I think I shook off all that darkness. Plus there’s too much real darkness out there now. It’s time for more uplifting fare, methinks.

        Liked by 1 person

      • Yes, to uplifting fare. Thanks…

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  2. Seeing in the dark. Lovely, Bill.

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  3. Absolute stunning description. Like someone says, liquid, and hauntingly beautiful.

    Liked by 1 person

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