"Fata Morgana over the Post Office."

"Outside the Post Office." 

Above the town 

a mirage hung 

a wood

of snow-clad trees 

in gowns of white, 

a magic wood 

up in the sky

of grey below

buoyed up this apparition, 

dreamed,

a backcloth so theatrical 

it seemed to sway

lit by the low primeval sun, 

its glow

so tinted green;

if I was told 'twas Paradise,

or even Hell,

my mind held mesmerised  

its strange spell

a screen between the earth, 

the sky,

those forests floated, 

still

a spectred troup with textured shrouds

etched white,

forever marching on towards 

the drapes of night.