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.
~~~OOO~~~
Now bloody helm holds halves above that hideous grin.
