Phantoms in Night Fog

Through the mist of night fog
In the hours when cars whisper
In the hours when rodents forage
About the polished skull above
That secretly crowns the spire
Across wet lantern cobblestone
Lost faces and gone café lights
Resound in cold ghoulish pallor
Suddenly deep bronze bell sounds
Which makes the shades of gloom?
Sickly through lambent abode eyes
Here sleeps a quiet unlit cold space
Times unfathomable anti colour
Burns dour phantoms in night fog!
The old self hate of new half light
Now in-between haste and history
Is it not the wind in the grass?
Or the late man in a grey hurry
That lures melancholy home?