Shadow called on the house next door
by wilted lilies on the garden floor
and rueful, pale daylight.
The doorbell watches the front door swing
and quietly welcomes anything
but Shadow past its sight.
Footsteps panic to and fro
with all to wait and none to know
‘neath haunted clouds, so white.
Lace hankies, frail and foreigner
in trembling fingers; faces blur
foretelling woeful plight.
A splendid dusk arises there
and stifled mourning fills the air,
breaking fine polite.
Shadow left with stunning grace,
left voiceless voice and faceless face
in memories’ fading light.
Mourners, dark with clouded mind:
with love in hearts, they left behind
Shadow’s sweet invite.
Shadow called on the house next door.
There’s none to call on anymore
but empty souls tonight.
T. E. Pyrus