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