The Silver Bridge Cryptid
A night with black clouds, eminent, foreboding;
by John M. Marshall
a wind filled with snow and arrows of ice
through which flew on massive wings
the Silver Bridge cryptid with ruby-red eyes.
Villagers asleep along the river,
whose dreams were shattered by blasts of thunder,
awoke to find the ghostly monster
perched in their trees, grooming its wings.
Terror and fear saturated the air,
the brightness of sanity extinguished by the mist.
Children running down the wispy streets
saw it fly like a dolphin chasing fast ships.
In gardens and groves, in buildings left empty,
many would see the spectral moth,
hear its voice like harps under water
calling out danger from the spans of the river.
No one believed or heeded its warnings;
suspicion had cloaked their ears and eyes.
On Christmas Eve the Silver Bridge broke,
hurling dozens of people into rapids of darkness.
A devastated village buried its dead,
shut its gardens, withdrew in mourning,
told stories of the cryptid behind closed doors;
and the red-eyed specter was seen no more.
Copyright © 2012 John M. Marshall