The mist turned dark

in my backyard

             winds shift,     birds call

at the wrong time of day

figures of fog

trail breathless across the night

trace their own path

and whisper on the wind

drawn by the beat

of careless hearts

they seek to steal

that which cannot be bought

shadows slither up brickwork

to your windowpane, traverse glass

like hands through shallow waters clear,

             reaching in – reaching out

they want

                          to touch life

they want

                          to come in

static flickers and sulphur

signal their approach

the air turns white,

chills settle on the skin

they drift closer, encroach,

twisted features form,

crooked mouths spill stagnant air

and salivate at your scent

narrow eyes assess

angled heads confer,

conclude…

You’ll do nicely.

KC Bailey practices Tai Chi and drinks Earl Grey tea, though hasn’t yet mastered the art of doing both simultaneously. Publication credits include Black Bough Poetry, The Tide Rises, Monkey Kettle, The Ekphrastic Review, CaféLit and the BBC (KCBailey_Writer).