(a tribute to the works of Walter de La Mare)
The Autumn winds blew sharply past
Upon the darkened road.
One lone Traveler drove hard and fast,
His horse lathered from its load.
The Traveler rode on, into the night
Throughout treacherous Gossnargh Moor.
"I yearn for rest as such besets my plight."
As rains pelted the mossy floor.
The Traveler had heard the legends,
But knew he must shelter seek;
For legends being as legends are
mean little to those tired, wet and weak.
The Traveler spied the Gatehouse
Through the mist as lightning cracked and hit its mark,
And made for the refuge as he thought.
"Long have I journeyed, how tired my heart!"
He came upon the Oaken door held fast by it's ancient lock.
"Pray, is anyone here?" Though none would answer his plea;
For only Shadows were here to listen,
No man The Traveler could see.
As The Traveler yelled and begged
For one to help and render aid;
The Shadows hovered near the hallway waiting,
As the ruckus outside their Oaken door was made.
No voice came from within the Gatehouse,
No utterance of life at all.
Save the flutter of darkness disturbed from its slumber
By The Traveler's frantic call.
How could he gain entry through the Oaken door
When there were no ears to hear?
So, The Shadows watched with disembodied eye
At the prospects of the Traveler's fear.
And as The Traveler sank in death toward the mossy floor,
With his last breath his life had ceased.
The Shadows then floated to the Oaken door
And with icy fingers the lock released.