Down Shady lanes
by the haze of night.
Through cemetery gates
under silver moonlight.
Across dampened grass
in the shadow of brickwork
finished with stained glass.
Where the phantoms lurk.
Crooked streets,
old harbour sounds.
Grizzled men retreat
when the ghosts are around.
Menacing clouds hang
iron coloured coverings.
Fearful pangs
as the rain stings.
Hilltop carpark
looks over the town below,
where downward rivers of rain flow.
Such a sight to behold,
twinkling streetlights
Like reflections of dead stars of old.
Breath misty from the cold lashing rain
like the ghosts that walk these dark lonely lanes.
In the distance thunder booms,
clouds loom,
like snow-capped mountains of melancholy.
Silver tipped summits
against the inky blues of squally nights.
Filling the canvas of the sky in sight.
Mist swirls the view
we amble through
the streets below.
Listening to the sounds of history as we go.
Thanks for reading.
Peace, Love and Poetry
Kyle
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