Turning Around
It was at the grist's mill, like I had seen a ghost,of the corn that stood, on the back forty grow,in green with eyes like onyx, as my pulse skipped a beat. Where tombstones sleep without a moaning peep,and the raven's nest where monks took keep,as the frost froze over the Dutch clover. And I felt a breath over my shoulder,while counting the sheep,turning around and saw my ghostly lover.