The Phantom

The Phantom by Margaret Ingall

The morning mist is silver,

The air is crisp and cold,

The sun is slowly rising

And turning grey to gold.

The landscape makes a picture

Becalmed within a frame.

Till comes a shift – a tremor

A hiss of gas and flame,

And there, beyond the treetops,

Like some phantasmal moon,

Upon the dawn comes riding

A giant air balloon.

Adrift upon an upstream,

It floats with cobweb grace,

Unhurried as the dawning,

At one with sky and space.

And far below, still dreaming

The sleeping village lies,

And no-one sees the voyager

That moves across the skies.