The Hill

Clawing moonlight scrapes across the land
Where ragged treetops hide against the hill,
And darkness falling, gathers moist and chill
On shadows standing hand in spectral hand.

No simple ghostly phantom of the night
Can further wail the note of ling'ring dread
Once howled by ghoulish things amidst the dead
That restive sleep within this woody blight.

Nothing moves, where once there proudly stood
Majestic towering oaks and flowers fair,
For a secret strangeness lingers in the air
And sunlight shuns the sullen, dusky wood.

No creature wild will walk the weedy trail
That winds among the gnarly, stunted trees,
For noisome vapors sometime stain the breeze
And waft unwelcome down into the vale.

Something happened, one grim sunless day
Of which the country folk refuse to speak;
Now ghastly glimmers between rough headstones peek--
And more than this, I cannot--will not--say.

© 1999 Alan Peschke