There's a clatter of hooves on the dusty road, <br />then the strident sound of the old school bell. <br />For a stranger stands in the village square <br />and he has a terrible tale to tell. <br /> <br />His jaw hangs slack as he tries to speak, <br />with his eyes glazed wide with unbridled fright. <br />His shaking hand points to the west <br />through the deep dark depths of impassive night. <br /> <br />His head hangs down in abject fear. <br />His face is drawn and ashen pale. <br />His voice holds the quiver of aspen leaves <br />as he starts to relate his fearsome tale. <br /> <br />'My love is taken by the beast <br />He has bound her fast in the finest gold <br />He has stolen away her wedding gown <br />and dressed her corpse in a graveyard mould <br /> <br />He came to her in the dead of night, <br />no signal marked his silent tread, <br />no voice, no footstep marked his course, <br />and his visage marked one who was long since dead. <br /> <br />We were only married for but one week <br />and my bride was full of the joy of Life, <br />but the spectre carried it all away, <br />and left me weeping for my wife.” <br /> <br />The message he gave was softly passed <br />like the whispering leaves in a willow tree, <br />as he bade me take it to the world <br />that nothing remains for Eternity. <br /> <br />No love no joy, nor foolish jest, <br />no comfort found in passion’s pleasure. <br />Nothing to mark our earthly past <br />once we depart from life’s last measure” <br /> <br />His eyes locked tight in a grievous stare, <br />the stranger’s voice was wracked with pain, <br />and speaking thus fell to the ground. <br /> <br />Nevermore to rise again.<br /><br />Thomas Vaughan Jones<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-omen-7/
