|
Post by carousal on Nov 28, 2009 11:16:22 GMT -5
Footsteps
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?
|
|
|
Post by Artemis on Nov 29, 2009 5:59:11 GMT -5
Another wonderful write from you John, absolutely loved your imagery and atmosphere ... reminded me a little of sleepy hollow wothout the horror! Really enjoyed this, Kerry xxx
|
|
|
Post by Harklight on Dec 1, 2009 4:05:34 GMT -5
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
|
|
|
Post by carousal on Dec 1, 2009 8:09:18 GMT -5
Thanks for reading and the kind comments, apologies for the summond typo ‘a’ instead of ‘o’ modified
|
|