|home page||list of works|
The spectre high on Tybalt Hill
Has shown himself tonight,
Has bared his soul to travellers late
Beneath the moon's pale light;
And I would not have chanced to see him
Had I not glanced at moonbeams fleeing
Far from those windswept heights.
His chilling silver shroud aglow
He stands and waits, but no man knows
For what, none of his hells perceives,
Seeming at rest, whilst ill at ease.
As if some sombre eulogy
Were waiting to depart
Down from the stage (yet sewn-closed lips
Frustrate the solitary cast),
He stands and waits; and, Oh, I fear
His eyes are beckoning me near.
I feel my footsteps quicken pace
To home. Is this a winner's race?
The wind, it whistles still outside
As if the summoner's noose;
But I would not leave fireside's warmth
No, not if I could choose.
Spell-bound, my ghost is drawn in shackles
Up to the heath where black-crows cackle,
There to unearthly use.
|photos: Stephen Alsford|
|Created: November 17, 2014. Last modified: January 27, 2015||© Stephen Alsford|