The night was clear, and still, and silent
Air like razorblades.
The naked trees stood sentry
Limbs outstretched, in dark charades.
The ground, a pure white wilderness
Sends out no invitation.
The Traveller has need of none
He knows his destination.
The blackened hedgerows stand stock-still
Each thorn awake, alert.
The silent world of rodents
In their nests, asleep, inert.
The sullen sky keeps watchful eye
Upon this cold domain
The Traveller pays the sky no toll
And presses on again.
The river, black and silent,
Rips a scar across the land,
Hooded wraiths, with trolls, as slaves
The crossings do command.
For their toll they seek a soul,
Upon which they must feed
The Traveller ignores their roars
He pays them little heed.
He spies the distant hamlet
Barely lit by gibbous moon,
His hollow eyes caress the skies
He hums a deathly tune.
He stops outside a hovel,
He grins his deathly grin,
He knows his journey's over
He can smell the fear within.
He lifts his scythe, and waves it once
Above his bony head,
He carries out his calling,
That of harvesting the dead.
The Traveller turns his steed around,
And heads off on his way
He settles in his saddle,
There are more to reap today.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Owain Glyn
