yet solid, soft,
like angels wings
arise aloft,
a sandhill crane
perhaps an owl
thru mystic haze.
A farmer’s plow
tho vision doubt,
it seems to me
like unicorn
on nestled lea
‘tween om’nous hills
(true ghostly mounds)
that swallow kings
whose castles found
beneath the shroud
of gray and white.
(where shadows turn
to fancy flight)
Go swiftly by
on daily trek
pass motorcar
(or chariot
with steed that wrench
on twisted rein
and throttled rounds
accelerate.)
Who knows for certain
vistas seen,
when thru the foggy
twilight screen?
© 2008 george edwin smith
