29 May 2012
The witching velvet evening falls across the quiet land the last red ray of twilight steals shadow from my hand.
The marsh mist shrouds the lonely farms and hovels of the poor the fields become the the dark domain of talon and of claw.
The doors are locked and bolted cows safely in the byre yet still I draw my chair a little closer to the fire.
Something with black and silent wings brushed by the dusky ash and tiny ivy tendrils claw like fingers at the sash.
Is Jack-o'-lantern whirling bright somewhere out in the gloom as creeping marsh mist fingers strand the skirting of my room.
The doors are locked and bolted cows safely in the byre yet still I draw my chair a little closer to the fire.
Is old black shuck a loping with eyes like burning coals down ancient brooding byways in search of wayward souls.
Is a Tollesbury smack a skimming full sail off Shingle Head her long lost crew a singing her rigging glowing red.
The doors are locked and bolted cows safely in the byre yet still I draw my chair a little closer to the fire.
But whispering from the marsh mist a voice spoke soft to me "Lord bless you, son of plough and sail we wish no harm to thee".
Tom May
Marsh Mist • Opuss № I