The Unhaunting

Ancient ruins cloaked in fog rise from the icy ground,
yet here no restless spirits are likely to be found.
The wind has driven all from this commune of the dead,
and stitched the lace of curling clouds to frequent them instead.
They hover over columns and sail the empty halls,
brushing clear the cobwebs of these once-haunted walls.

For The Sunday Whirl  the prompt words are:cloaked ruins ancient lace communes stitched spirits wind drive curling icy ground