Under the shade of an oak I survey the landscape.

My canvas is the sky as it blends with the ground

And although my palette with gay colours abound,

Only grey shadows emerge and grey shadows escape.

Colours of autumn foliage riots in the sun,

But heavy grey shadows are cast upon the leaves.

Weighty greyish mists assemble under the eaves,

Like the ghouls congregate where an evil deed was done.

I review the present, but my mind is in the past.

I watch the shadows cast, dancing upon my heart,

Gossamer like images; back and forth they dart,

Appearing like apparitions, disappearing fast.

Shadows metamorphose, changing shape and character,

Like patterns in the desert’s sand drawn by the wind

That can fashion beauty, but can also rescind,

Producing a drama in a shadow-theatre.

We are all shadow-actors on a gigantic stage,

Entering on cue and leaving without a trace;

Casting empty shadows in vast, eternal space

To engage for a while, then silently disengage.

Shadows dance upon the stage that constantly revolve,

Evoking blithe patterns that flit across a lake…

Wondering if I dream… or am I wide-awake?

As I stand n’ watch my own shadow quietly dissolve…

© P. J. Oszmann (2003)