Ghost from a Wishing Well

He strikes at the stroke of midnight, At the last peel of a distant bell, When the dark owl sounds the witching hour, And the laments of the bullfrogs swell. He appears in a moonlit bower, When the rings round the moon are bright, Whispering a wish that he once made - A wandering ghost from a wishing well. He creeps slowly through the tall grass, For a reason only he may tell, Concealing his face beneath a shroud, When whippoorwills from their mantles cry. His shadow falls across the window, A silhouette of the deepest shade, When the cold wind murmurs through the trees Of promises broken long ago. He hides behind the lilac bush, When clouds sweep low across the night sky, Waiting for his penitence to pass, Calling some mystical name out loud. He gives the gate a gentle push, Canting the words of some ancient spell. But there is no magic to appease A wayward ghost from a wishing well.

~ Daniel F Mitchell