He leans into the centuries-old oak,
Stetson pulled low over his pale, gaunt face.

On a clear night,
moonlight reflects off his well-worn trousers.

When it rains,
he waits there nonetheless,
arms crossed against the cold.

We’ve never spoken, although sometimes
I catch the slightest dip of his hat
in acknowledgement of my presence
as I approach.

I raise my hand in return greeting,
but by then he is gone,
along with the centuries-old oak that blew down
in the Great Storm of ’87,
a hundred-some years ago.

JNW’s Halloween Challenge Day 2: ghost