Empty Echo - Poetry By Mark Goodson

In a passion

that could cook skin,

Like knuckle-eyed

Death at the door,

The wild wind whipped

Round the blind corner.

I heard the footfall,

A stranger in pursuit.

I looked back and saw

A well-lit mirror,

An open-window-stare.

Heard some phone

Call in the night.

A cry, a moan

Like river-bed stone

Swallowed by

Blue river veins.

It was not tomorrow,

Or how yesterday

Hurls itself

At the junction

Of my dreams

And waking hours.

It was an echo.

My empty voice returned

As strange to my ears

As to the mouth who

Let the utterance fly

To remind me I have

Not forgotten the ghost

That still rattles my bones.

Empty Echo – Poetry By Mark Goodson