An Oddly Haunted Cinquain

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The fog
Crept from the lake.
The advancing tendrils
Reaching out from the solid bank
Of white.

It whispers round
Entwining your senses
So you think you hear it creeping

The pines
Are gentled – fog
Strokes soft the trees’ rough bark,
Fills and sooths the corrugations,

Of standing water –
See how it creeps across,
Clouds over the pools’ mirror faces …

Its touch
On the back of
Your hand, like the wet-cold
Finger of a spirit long dead,
Clams skin.

The fog!
It whispers round,
Strokes soft the trees’ rough bark,
Clouds over the pools’ mirror faces,
Clams skin.

Since reading about the Cinquane at Wise Badger, I’ve been looking for an excuse to try my hand at one. The opportunity came from Paul the Perendinator and his Oddly Haunted Journey word game. The above uses words from the first five days of the game (1st-5th October – whisper, skin, fog, mirror, bark).

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