A Baleful Harvest
Three mortal friends prowl far into the sylvan deep;
It is where trapped ghosts wander and joy does not leap.
Past the unkept meadows, our friends walk quietly;
Beneath the arms of oaks, they listen silently.
Sitting ’round a fire, each one warms his hands;
Eyeing the stillness, they heed these cursed lands.
The first tells his tale of a legend seldom heard;
And none dare interrupt his every fateful word.
But there is movement, far off in the stygian fields.
‘It is but a brute, scavenging a farmer’s yields.’
Thus resumes the story, yet the shape lumbers on.
‘I should think this valley more cheerful beyond dawn.’
October’s smokey air chills them to the marrow;
Though surely nothing shall come to greatly harrow?
‘My fancies are stirred by this grim, unnerving lore.’
‘For never in my life have I heard it before.’
‘I concur,’ says the second friend, ‘see each prickling hair?’
‘Look,’ whispers the third, ‘something is standing over there.’
Speaking not a mere word, they watch as it skulks forth;
‘We must leave,’ speaks the first, ‘our lives, this isn’t worth.’
Nodding and trembling, they put out the crackling flames;
Their rising trepidation, no one truly blames.
However, one by one, they vanish in the murk;
Now through that vale, no one wishes to ever lurk.
Shreds of shoe and shirt were found in a pumpkin patch.
That is why each fall, your door you must always latch.
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