PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

As I the winding path did follow

along the darkening moor,
I chanced upon a hidden hollow
where naught was there before.

I stepped up to the alder brush
that lined the quiet lea.
The brush drew back with whispered hush.
The path lay free before me.

I trod the path with quickened pace
onto the sunlit floor.
The alders swayed back into place
behind my step once more.

The sun shone down from peerless sky
into the tranquil glen.
On sweet spring breeze flit butterfly
this way and that again.

A mossy stream ran to a pool
of sparkling clear blue water.
A fawn bent down its head to cool
its thirst. A sleek, swift otter
played on the pool's embankment.
I heard a voice behind me utter
soft words of sweet enchantment.

‘You've come at last, my wandering swain,
back to my field of clover.
You’ve found your way back home again.
Your wandering days are over.’

I turned and spied the sylvan nymph,
long hair of fine-spun gold.
Eyes of blue and lips of crimson
promising pleasures untold. 

She took my hand, said we'd be one.
A shadow crept into the glen.
A cloud moved in to block the sun.
The breeze turned chill. Spell came to end.

Her golden hair fell to the ground.
Her eyes were dark and grim.
Her black lips spat a loathsome sound.
Dark sores dripped from her skin.

I turned and stepped toward the path.
The alders were thick and unbending.
Her voice was harsh, a cackling laugh.
‘You're mine for time never-ending.’

Her arms of mottled, blemished bone
reached out to steal my breath.
I spun aside, repelled the crone,
eluded her embrace of death.

In two swift strides, I gained the pool,
dove deep and down ever deeper,
preferring death to fate so cruel
as the love of the dread Grim Reaper.

When I awoke, the sun shone bright
on my limp form beside the way.
There was no sign of the glen of blight
nor of the ghoul who there held sway.