Slumped on age-bowed rails, was a train of deep set misery. It’s one dirt encrusted eye did dim at twilight’s howling hiss-command. It hunkered squat and low, for gravity had cowed it, lashing with wintry-whips. How it did moan! How its wheels did whine! How its soul rattled at bars skank-grim. In diesel bouquets, as burnt and morbid offerings, it crept in as the very death nell of mirth. Involuntarily I stepped away, stumbling almost to the ground. Around it all was cold and becoming colder still. Is this how it moved? Did it steal heat? Did it bring hearts to a hypothermic stutter-halt? It could not be a thing of this world, yet a ghost train, a spectre made of evil’s song.
Dead leaves swarmed as machiavellian cabal, fervent in the first foment of winter. As eager accomplice wind was sangfroid, patient, observing, selecting the time most sublime to savour a spot of obloquy. What a delicious coup! What sweet cultural sedition! Encipher true order, subvert expectations, observe a state of meticulous alertness! Between leaves, wind and chill it was impossible to explain the instinct all betook for caution. For time out of mind not a soul could recall a case of late fall so sinister.
Wintry wands, waved by nature's hand, take on a bold brown silhouette in silvery air; sometimes "eerie" is as pretty as wild summer flowers.
I am as at home in the eerie as the clear spring days, for I am my own safety, my own protector. That is how the hero is, one cannot be both a rescuer and rescued. I soothe myself. I am calm.
There is a beauty to the eerie landscape, as if in this unsettling fog a new picture has the courage to form.
There is magic in the eerie quiet, as if nature were casting a new spell upon the soul.
Eerie is in the eye of the beholder, for when you are brave you can relax in the sea-foam blues of the air.
In the eerie scene there is a chance to learn how to silence fear and for the eyes to see better than they ever have.