The Thing 

On a rare autumn night

Against the strongest wind

Came a lengthening of chin

With a hideous grin.

One shoulder hunched up

While string fingers turned goldie

It clutched enough meadow

To turn pumpkins moldy.

Then it hung for awhile

On a creaking gate post

And shadowed the yard

With the face of a ghost.

From 2013 / Autumn Poetry: A Collection for the Season

Photo: Pixabay