The wind blows low and mournful…

by Izabelle Chappell

The wind blows low and mournful over the town upon moors
Where the houses all have sun-bright roofs and crimson carpeted floors.
The children sleep with steel dolls, the fathers have red beards
The mothers wear rope necklaces to ease away their fears.
The trees are hung with bloated fruit, never to be taken
The churchyards full with custom, fellows never to awaken.
The folk are pale as spiders’ eggs, their eyes like watered milk
The smoke from charred building remains, arising like black silk.
The church’s alter is unlit, the cross still dripping red
The flames still flicker, quite alive, whilst all else there is dead.
They had not salt, nor chalk, nor yet the iron that they fear
So when the fair folk came to stay, they let the monsters near.
The wind blows low and mournful over the ghost town on the moors
Where houses have eyes in their roofs, and secrets in their floors.
The children sleep with steel dolls, while fires light the gloom
The town they’d come to live in, and the town became their tomb.