This is a season most comfortable
with ancient stone and twilit cobbled streets,
roamed by ghosts at home with suffering.
Filtered and fractured by gust blown leaves,
the fading light leaks onto cringing mists,
my pain cradled in a tangle of twisted undergrowth.
Losing you may be a way station on the hero journey
but the night proves nothing.
and wakes to darkness and gutter-echoed rain.
At home in the Pacific Northwest, John is retired from a career in education and devotes his time to writing and managing his four Westies. He has written a collection of poems, three fantasy novels and several short stories, and has had pieces published in an anthology and regional magazines.