Grey Haunt

The day the Grey came into town it started in the glade.

It choked the breeze and passed the fields; the farmhands drop their spades.

The Gold would Brown, the dirt would turn, and Black became of Green.

It crept and crawled, it slithered on, spurring fearful dread.

And down the old worn country road, Smiths Rock remained ahead.

And in the town of Smiths Rock the cobble stones would clatter.

Windows shut and doors locked as people fled and scattered.

The patient Grey would take its time, soaking in the panic.

The empty streets, the baren roads as soothing as dead static.

Smiths Rock, the most unwilling host would keep it company.

Her streetlight lamps smothered tight by her new enemy.

There then came its open mouth consuming up and down.

With shingles split and wooden timber scattered all around.

The wind blew in now with the Grey, the breeze was now its own.

The end result was, as you could say, already set in stone.

The Grey would seep and saunter in patiently at pace.

Peering in through windowsills at every guilty face.

Grinning wide through panel glass, sneering at those to blame.

Shaking hard the wooden doors, reminding them their shame

But in good time it turned its sights away from wreckage made.

It pushed on hard across the river toward its destination.

A dead-end road soaked in moonlight, wrapped in obscuration.

The Grey had emerged through the glade, searching for its spouse.

And at the Eastern end it found the Broadmire House.