A Moon as Silver as Aluminium or Mercury

The air tastes of silver. There is dew on that last image; a blurry figure walking through a raggedy field on a gloomy day, looking behind her - or him. The face is blurred. Who is watching whom? This is what the air in here tastes of tonight.
Silver. Or something from the aluminium factories. They hide in the marshy woods by canals. Long shifts through the winter days. Look up through those tiny windows, stained glass and smoke and steam. I see the moon there, and the moon, oh yes, is silver too - or aluminium.
Or mercury.
Slippery as milk, she is a poplar tree. Something about their sway reminds me of her, the pensive minutes this side of midnight. Down the hallway, the mundane stairs to the front door might be made of bone. I imagine a forest of poplar trees.
On my skin lies their chorea.
I might be silver in their dusk.