Lightning flashed then hit his grave

Lightning flashed then hit his grave

too soon after he emerged

to carry on his haunting nights

with boots still wet from shifting earth

and eyes too pale for any light

He came as fog along the lane

his breath a mist that touched the glass

of every house he used to know

the ones that bolted doors too late

the ones that whispered prayers too slow

He never knocked he never spoke

just watched from corners barely seen

and walked with hands behind his back

as if he strolled through Sunday green

instead of dragging ghosts in black

They say he laughed beneath his hat

that grin still wide from hanging rope

they say the lightning hit too soft

to stop the boots that wouldn’t rot

or crack the neck that learned to hope

So every year on that same date

he slips in through the smallest crack

the air turns cold, the clocks run slow

and nothing living dares look back