Through the Empty Forest
Through the empty forest winging,
Bloodlust from the borders bringing,
Fastened to the treetops clinging,
Bats awake in shadowed vales.
Lost within the winter gloaming,
Unforgiving, rabid roaming,
Under haunted heavens doming,
Wings apart like little sails.
Woods that shelter villains hiding,
Clandestine, in hills abiding,
From the sheriff madly riding,
Outcast on the Yorkshire dales.
Crimes upon the conscience sitting,
With the bats vampiric flitting,
Into deeper darkness splitting,
Fate that even God bewails.
Rivers through the hillocks wending,
Serpentine and slowly bending,
Even to the sea extending,
As the banshee spirit wails.
Here, the lonely lupin growing,
With its purple colour showing,
Unexpected cheer bestowing,
Even in the rushing gales.
And the darksome ivy growing,
With its glossy finish showing,
Under skies of granite flowing,
Ruins that the ivy scales.
Winter’s stretching ruination,
Curses a contamination,
Bats pronouncing protestation,
As the flag of Sheol flails…
🦇
