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The Man in the Mist By A. Banfield-Powell
Away from the battle I fled in great haste, Fearing for my life and the weight of my sin. The scent of death in my mouth I did taste, And wonder of the coffin they’d bury me in. When at once I did notice, my surrounds, A fearful and decrepit place quite rotten. A swamp, once a grave yard, peppered with mounds, Holding the bones of the dead long forgotten. Behind piled tomb stones I made myself masked, My pursuers clothed in the pale moon’s light. Gleefully talking of what had been tasked, Lusting like beasts for the next savage fight. They searched as an owl may search for its prey, Keen eyes on tenterhooks for alien presence. Upon them time seemed not to weigh, Determined they were to vouchsafe my penance. When at last my hunters found My corner of this most ghastly hell, I shivered in darkness near burial mound, With a stench of fear they surely did smell. I closed my eyes and waited still, For death’s final, unending hold. To pay my unearthly debt and bill, The price to be my immortal soul. But death’s cold touch, I did not embrace, In this world of gloom and mist I remained. Huddled in fear in that foul place, As if to my tomb I were already chained. When all at once I realised, A stillness in the cold night air. As though my chasers were paralysed, The wolves no longer sought the hare.
