A MELANCHOLY MYSTERY
By the empty house at evening
when the long avenue darkens,
a figure glimpsed, though you're not certain,
a grey shadow vanishing.
There is a story told and re-told
many years by winter firesides,
of one by night arriving hurried
at that dark house in secret.
Summer brightness never enters
layered depths of windless leaf-shade;
groan in winter bare-bone branches
under the thin wind's lashing.
Sometimes at dusk a candle's
dim light wavered window to window,
the hurrying traveller startled
by a face of haunting sadness
Yet her name was never spoken.
Was it choice or cruel desertion
that she lingered long years lonely
in that place of chill and shadow?
Then, by night, a mute procession
glimpsed by one who looked out sleepless.
Next morning blinds on sightless windows
drawn down - a final action?
Not quite. Go by at evening
when the long avenue darkens.
Can it be imagination,
that gentle sound of weeping?
Copyright © Bernard Gilhooly - All Rights Reserved