Only just made it to the house
with the last rays of a blood red sun

mist crept up the hill-
a cold white hand

our field a milky lake
buoying bails of hay

but the fog stopped at the gates
rose up to meet the night

with the Carpathians not far
I cowered behind the window

waited for shadows to slither onto our porch
despite the wild garlic

I could hear the creeps whisper
"You really don't know anything."