At the graveyard's gate

A gossamer hung on the graveyard's gate. A spider clung to steel, consuming its meal. It had no need to know dinner was served late, Nor sensed ghostly keels the summer winds conceal. The owls flew on, unperturbed by midnight's scare, That made dead men howl silently in each grave, Fresh ghosts were blown toward the gate in despair, The gate creaked loud at each brush of ghostly wave. Grief-stricken men earlier brought a fresh stiff, Whose spirit roams about as if still alive. His shroud still sweetly scented for winds to sniff. Where otherwise smells of decayed corpses thrive. Rotten bones left near the godforsaken gate, Lay scattered by the snouts of some groaning pigs, As scavenging and ruin became their fate. While restless souls lay buried beneath their digs.