The shape of fear does lie amidst mine air,
In some cruel form true known to trick my truth.
Like a wizard moves ‘tween form and guise,
Does writhe ‘twix things that be, and things that may.
It is oft a flitt’ring kestrel o’er the trees,
Or beauty in a smile with silver hair,
A sound of heaven, wove with envied care.
It is a diamond ring on fingers else,
It is contemp’ry cheer. The lifeless face
Of churches closing doors and ripping flags
(If ‘tis not the veil, ‘tis nothing.). And next,
In the witching hour, oft an empty book
Does show itself.
But darkest still does claim
Those dear full pages, ne’er to bloom with name.
Lois E. Linkens