some one told you the old stories;
how a traveler at night
was waylaid by a family
glinting, their eyes, with a diamond light
and even the light, stolen.
were there other roads?
you want to believe
there could have been
some way out for him.
but you look at the picture,
and it glows
and the snow is still accumulating there,
the air is chill
and you feel a draft with the windows closed
of all the befores and afters
that were plausible.
and mere moonlight overflows the causeway
spilling over into your small room.
mary angela douglas 7 july 2016