On evenings when no craven moon would light
The woods and moors around that ancient house,
There lived a crone whose simple glimpse gave fright
To those who saw that form, grey as a mouse.
The bold, to varied distance oft might creep
Between bent snags to view rank horrors there,
Where sight alone would mar all peaceful sleep
For yet a fortnight and in others, more.
On Hallows’ eve when souls would leave the grave
To walk the earth and breathe of mortal air,
God fearing men with living souls to save
Would from their torch lit hollows stand and stare
Unsure of what their faith bade them to do…
As angst and paranoia slowly grew.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.