Take the old road after midnight From Dymchurch wall to the Burmarsh chimes Arm yourself with a trusty lantern With ardent prayers to your given god ~ Sorrow on the touch of night wind Chills the heart and melts resolve Keep you’re footsteps to the pathway For you there is no turning back ~ Murmurs in the fluted reeds Footfalls on the path behind Hoof beats on the Brenzet meadows Quietened by a fearful glance ~ Small the church of Saxon stone Sits silvered by the hanging moon Open mouths of empty windows Call the dead to evensong ~ Mashland mist waits to greet you Fingered wraiths of vapour rising Summond by the curlews call What is waiting, round the bend?
Even though I don't recall being to places with these names, you have a knack of making them seem real and familiar: I imagine being there, seeing sights and hearing the sounds. You've truly used "imagery" to best advantage. I'm unsure what "summand" is: did you mean summonsed? The questioning final line arrives so soon. A beautiful read, Cari. H x
"Great spirits have always encountered violent opposition from mediocre minds." ~ Albert Einstein