The Moonlit Road
White the road lies under the moon,
one quarter short of full;
white the road lies under the moon
that leers like a bleached skull.
The waxen moon hangs heavy now,
still as a hanged man’s head,
lighting the way for shadows’ steps,
the dead march of the dead.
The fingerpost points pointlessly
way over the chalk down;
the gallows ghost will never move
from where they cut him down.
White the road lies under the moon
in the unquiet night;
white the ghost stands beside the road,
pale in the wan corpselight.