Pseudo-European Sensibility

A poem about "Europe"

I have always wanted to see "Europe".

Not the place, not a country.

But the age, the ancientness of it.

Mostly I like the moss.

I always have liked "Spanish" Moss.

It hangs,

Sad and weary, yet mysterious.

A spirit could sit upon that branch.

The trees are not my simple pines,

It's groves are utterly foreign,

As is the mist that hangs about it;

The air that sings of the past.

I look for it in all the strangest places.

In graveyards, where I only find grass.

In woods, too tame to hold a single beast.

Everything I see... is safe.

There is a shadow in "Europe",

Something old, and gray, and dark.

A fantasy that I search for,

But not to find.

Reviews

[Philip Muls]

The old continent, yes. Ancient and lots of traditions.

What exactly is that shadow you write about though ?

[Outdated Account]

Old places have a lot of history to them. For example: Some trees (particularly hardwoods) have been around for potentially hundreds of years, pine trees mature at around 20 and usually succumb to rot, fire, or infestation soon after. I can imagine in my head a grove with a single large tree in the middle just outside of a small country village that probably held a hanged witch at one point.
I guess that's kind of what I'm talking about... if that makes sense. Things happened. There's mystery to it.