It’s quiet here
off the trail,
just a rush of leaves
with each step.
And as I venture further down,
down towards the calling,
the sun seems to set faster
the hills behind, they darken.
Still, down I go,
never pausing
to ponder why
suddenly
and without hesitation
I strayed from my evening stroll,
compelled
by the calling.

Soon enveloped in the black,
the overgrowth becomes toil,
clutching for branches and trunks,
to keep moving-
for I must keep moving.
Grasping at thick, bark signposts
to take another step, then repeat,
down, down into the abyss.
It’s not until I happen across the clearing
and spy the oaken door
there, in the middle of an open field
that the dread creeps in.
Behind me, faint,
I can hear my wife calling.
But it’s too late.
The door to nowhere swings open
and now, through the murk
I can see his eyes.
It’s time.

Ezy Reading is out every month.