Kthaahthikha

There’s a storm coming-up and it rocks the lakes,

Sending leaves into eddies round the stony pools,

The cape of the forest hangs over the mountains

And mist comes off the water as the evening cools.

There’s something in the trees that’s bearing on my mind,

An eye-corner glimpse as I’m splitting a log.

And it comes to me, the old tales they told,

Of the spectre of the pines and the ghost in the fog.

I’ve been round here about a month or so,

Hunting deer in the woods and fishing in the stream,

I’ve got a gun by my side as I sit on the porch,

Looking over the lake lit like a macabre dream.

Whispers reaching me on the darkening breeze,

Soul-lights flicker on the shore-side loam;

Murmuring figures flit between the trees,

Towards my little valley home they roam.

I watch them from the window, on the porch,

Scuttling up along the awning beams,

They peer with glowing amber through the panes;

Hiss, mutter, click, whistle and scream.

Beneath the bed, I watch the door creak wide,

Their gliding frames flow in across the floor,

Dismantle cupboards; gazing into cups;

Fish torn by glinting teeth drops into slippery maw.

The rifle shudders in my two strong hands.

I cower uncertain of my mind and aim,

And hide their shaking till the turn of dawn,

When spectres melt beneath the falling rain.