Phantom Call

At the death of day
the phantoms come
from their river home,
like children that want to frolic and play

and they are ever hiding from the sun’s brooding beam,
while they rise like fog from where the river flow,
sometimes are mistaken for vapour or steam,
but have fevering eyes that continually glow

whispering on the winds breath:
“follow me” and again “follow me,
I have gifts to bequeath, ”
while ethereal they are in body

and come calling to claim the young and gay
in gestures that obscure the adult eye
trying to carry them away
under a brooding, dark black sky.

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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