A cold haze settles over a dim marsh as
the sun sinks below a crest of dark trees.
The faint caw of a raven harsh echoes
over stagnant pools like tiny black seas.
Across the water there glows a firelight,
softly twinkling spots rise from the murk;
will’o’wisps beckon glimmering bright
over the soft rushes where low he lurks.
Silent, glimpsed on the edge of sight,
a creeping shadow so bent and thin
flows as silk through the misty night
and stalks with care and mirthful grin.
His crooked nose and back that twists
leave foul a vision burned in mind,
for where he treads gather the mists
and follow paths that forever wind.
But over the hill a rising golden fire;
darkness lifts from reed and sog.
A wisp of smoke curls through the mire;
the shape of a man, that fades in fog.