The Haunted Cemetery Poem by Suzette Richards

The trails of fog like cold entrails
that wind and slither through the copse
which shiver at the touch and sops.
A chance at vision clearly fails.

Each jutting rock: a sentinel.
A greying headstone stands alone
against the tones of verdant cone.
My heartbeat sounds like a death knell.

A silver coffin bell from ditch.
As I am trying t' place the hums;
direction clear from whence it comes
in variant beseeching pitch.

A hand that reaches up from grave
implores me for small change to buy
a warming nip of hooch as I
surrender will at being brave.