The Wight of the West Barrow 


A village near the ring of standing stones

Is haunted when the West Wind howls by night

And lightning forks the welkin. Then old bones

Awaken and bring forth a fearsome wight—

Long ages dead, neath an old mound forsaken

By all the village folk who shun that place.

For legends tell that many have been taken

By a revenant in rags with ghastly face.


They say he was a chief of battle once—

Long years agone, a Saxon warlord bold,

Who, murderous and marauding, took his chance

In many a clash, until—as the tale is told—

A foeman’s ax cleft skull from top to chin.



Now bloody helm holds halves above that hideous grin.