Stub towers in the distance, riders cross the blasted moor
against the horizon
Fickle promises of treaty, fatal harbingers of war,
futile orisons
Swirl as one in this flight, this mad chase,
This surge across the marshy mud landscape
until the meaning is forgotten.
Hood masks the eager face, skin stretched and sallow,
Headlong into the chilling night, as swift as any arrow.
Feet against the flagstones, fingers scrabbling at the lock,
craving protection,
‘Sanctuary!’ cracks a voice, half-strangled by the shock
of its rejection.
Shot the bolt in the wall, rusted the key;
Now the echoes of all frightful memory
intrude in the silence.
What a crawl against the slope — dark loom the gallows