A Clock Strikes Thirteen
Through the trees, they saw a light
As a haze o’er the village ahead
And weary from walking many miles
Two travellers thought they may find a bed
As they made their way to the village
A mist descended, cold and damp
Hindering the traveller’s on their quest
Shrouding the light from both window and lamp
Cloaked in the mist, the village was still
With no sign of life to be seen
As the traveller’s made their way to an inn
Ahead in the distance, a clock struck thirteen
As the last chime rang, from beyond the grave
Ghosts of the dead filled the streets
The travellers were frozen, unable to move
Fear and dread chilling their bones, head to feet
The traveller’s looked for a haven
But no matter how hard they tried
There was nowhere, for them to run to
With all routes of possible escape denied
Surrounded by the walking dead
And powerless in their plight
They were quickly consumed by spectres,
Who carried their souls off into the night
Satiated, the dead, returned to their graves
The clock once again struck thirteen
And two piles of dust, were all that remained
On the spot where the traveller’s had been.
Janette Fisher
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