Friday, 13 September 2019

A Waling Mist Falls Silent



And thus it came like some grotesque woe
At nine and twenty minutes of the night
Only five months and five days ago
When pale eyes finally lost their sight

Of that fright fifty years less five months
Earlier when some nights walking past
An eerie north gate, or so he said, some-
Thing dead hovered that would last

In perception until his last breath,
Until his lingering, haunted death.
He now joins the hovering thing
That fades — that does not sing

But wails as would a wampyr impaled
By an almighty sharp, wooden stake;
And Kraken-like cacophonously rales 
From a distant, deepest, darkest lake.

Abominable, dreadful despair.
Will you now wash your hair
And finally prepare for where
You are heading? But, where?

Fare thee well, David Farrant,
For whom the last long exhale,
In frightful, feeble, nervous rant,
Has, clipper-like, finally set sail.

But to no avail.

I wish you Godspeed — and hail
Fellow, but perhaps not well met.



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